


In Perfect Parts

by leslielol



Series: Mode & Moment [3]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 95,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7535284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/pseuds/leslielol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barba wants out of his own head. Carisi wants out of the closet. They settle for a weekend getaway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story follows the previous two in this series, because I have zero self control. I've been sitting on the first two chapters for a while, but am otherwise stalled in the writing of this fic, so I'm posting this chapter to motivate myself to keep going! Because that always works out well!!
> 
> The idea for this story came from slashmyheartandhopetoporn, who feeds me wisdom like a beautiful mother hawk unto an ugly little bushtit.

Rafael Barba went to therapy on Saturdays. He supposed that put him in with a block of high-powered, career-oriented types who could not spare a moment in the workweek, but instead carved readily into time meant for family and friends. It cut like tender steak and was consumed in tidy 100-minute chunks--fifty for the appointment, twenty for the round trip commute, and the extra thirty for the two drinks consumed at a nearby bar before the fact.

He didn’t think he belonged there, necessarily. Not at the bar and not within that block of visitors, certainly. 

He didn’t like the time he wasted considering what it meant if he did or didn’t wear a suit to his appointments. Would she assume he was dressing up, despite the fact that he regularly came from the office? If he dressed down--no vest, no tie--did that not make the dress shirt, suit, and suspenders cartoonish in comparison? 

“I don’t want to be here,” he said after she made her customary greeting--as a welcome, it was kind but not overly warm. Barba chose to railroad it. “It feels like I’m avoiding a wife and 2.5 children, and not even getting laid by a mistress for my trouble.” 

Barba was surprised when his therapist didn’t point how he hadn’t described ownership of any item in his list-- _a_ wife and kids, not _his_ wife and kids. No mistress for him. 

Instead, she ( _his_ therapist, he might have pointed out) smiled like she couldn’t stand to part her lips. (Maybe, Barba thought, she had sensitive teeth. Weakened enamel was the reason she kept her office strangely warm.) 

She asked, “Where do you want to be?”

-

Carisi liked the set up in Barba’s new apartment. It was clean, bright, and wide open. The walls were a green-grey color that blurred into olive in the evening, but stayed light during the day. They alternatively touched down to a stained black wood floor and kissed white doorframes. 

Despite everything Barba did to the contrary--filling it with dark, masculine accents rendered in lines as sharp as razors--the place was cozy.

The grand table had not successfully made the journey, neither to the four months Barba spent in the Bronx, or back again now to Manhattan. Barba once quipped he’d given it up to a police auction, but Carisi didn’t--or couldn’t--believe that. He imagined it was in storage somewhere, if only to sooth Barba’s own unsettled conscience. He could not have it in his presence, but the thing was his to keep. No one could make him surrender his belongings; he wasn’t twelve and that table wasn’t his lunch money. 

Carisi thought--but never said--that the apartment was better without it. 

At best it would sound like a pacification. At worst, an outright lie. Barba would jump on either, tear the comment apart until all that was left was the carcass of a kind intention, picked clean.

But Carisi believed this much: that table would run a line like a surgical scar if stationed anywhere in the space. Even without its ugly connotations as the place where Barba very nearly scribbled his last words and swallowed his last breath, it would be unwelcome. Instead, there was now the option for light to stream in, unencumbered, and spill on the bright, plush rugs thrown like ladies’ swing skirts over his dark floors.

Barba replaced the table, of course. Had to, needed the workspace. He settled for something more than half the original’s length--a desk of factory craftsmanship, metal u-shaped legs on either side, a glossy black top on which all his scattered papers stood like a warped checker board. 

Barba only sat himself there to work. 

When Carisi visited the apartment--usually late in the evenings, but as the destination more and more became his first stop after work, his arrival there corresponded with the setting sun--Barba could often be seen rising from the place, but never once had Carisi observed him take a seat there. It stood to reason that when Carisi came around, Barba could not bring himself to put his head down, narrow his field of vision, and focus.

Carisi was an excellent distraction and--it would seem--a bad influence. Barba was stretched out on the couch, barefoot, reading some beachy bestseller he’d criticized Carisi for obsessively consuming just the week before. Barba preferred histories--the greats, weeping tomes in which entire lives were carried. It was no recent affliction, but now more than ever Barba hungered for the stories of lives laid out from start to finish, lives that had their upsets in the middle pages, but soared from there through several hundred more. 

A tender love story complicated by tropes and cliches, then, was hardly to his tastes. He occasionally huffed a stilted laugh so that Carisi would know how far above it all he was. 

There was no denying his pleasure, however. His body was a glass showcase for that. Barba had one arm thrown back behind his head, hand sandwiched between his head and a throw pillow. A leg was similarly angled outwards, careening off the couch as if in protest of comfort. His undershirt rode up on his belly, a temptation hanging on borrowed time.

All that was lacking for Carisi was a vision of Barba’s face, which was lost behind the split spine of a book. Carisi imagined bright green eyes half-lidded in ease, and set under a smoothed brow. His eyebrows would be slanted, slightly, as if in ready sympathy for the imagined pain of others.

Carisi held this view from the floor, although there was a plush loveseat within reach. Like Barba, he liked to sprawl. Unlike Barba, he wasn’t picky about where he took this pleasure. Being the youngest, he’d practically grown up on floors. There wasn’t space enough in any house to seat an entire Italian family. The shortest ones were relegated to open floorspace, and for the sake of compliance, they were told it was fun for them to be there. Carisi had never entirely been dissuaded of that notion.

Carisi closed his eyes, let the book he was reading rest open on his chest, and enjoyed the great swathes of sunlight cast down on him. It painted the grey of his slacks and the lavender of his shirt shades lighter, but drew his skin and lips darker, revived. 

And for as lazily their Sunday passed, Carisi felt awoken for it. There was blood in these moments, and it seared through him, rallying life before commanding it. 

He didn’t even mind if, sometimes, the scope of their relationship seemed too large, yet despite that they continued on, unnoticed for it.

(Carisi had once--somehow--made sense of these feelings enough to pose them as a question to Barba, who had a ready phrase for it: many-sided estrangement. People don’t look for what they don’t expect, he’d said, and Caris had quietly found he agreed.)

Theirs was a day in which Barba had slept late and Carisi had attended Mass with his mother and sisters. As much held true in their dress: Barba unusually casual in a t-shirt and jeans--though both were decidedly top brands--and Carisi in the disheveled remnants of a suit. His jacket and tie were draped over the empty loveseat, his shiny shoes kicked off at the door. 

Barba only stirred to once stretch his legs, and then to change the record. He hadn't doomed _it_ to storage, at least. Instead, he'd added to his collection with a few albums plucked from his abuela’s apartment. They held her favorite songs, those she cherished because they reminded her of home. Barba kept them separate, believing they were worth more than an idle listen while busying himself with case files or, as was proving exceedingly more common, Carisi.

But sitting himself down to the task seemed impossible. A lot of good his overcompensating nature did him, now. 

Carisi remained blissfully unaware of this dilemma. In fact, he'd championed another cause, and smiled broadly when it came to fruition. On this day, after months of careful listening and patient waiting, he let the album on the record player spin, and knew that he’d heard it once before. The realization was every bit the victory he’d long imagined it would be, and it spoke to something greater than his memory or Barba’s steadfast production of different albums, each with a sound sweeter than the next. 

Carisi now knew without reservation that he’d been some small part of Barba’s life long enough to mark his presence. He’d made it through the record collection. It was like out-lasting a houseplant, but infinitely more satisfying. 

He was about to say something--a mistake, he was already half sure, because then he’d be forced to explain that he kept track of such a thing so precisely, and Barba would understand that it meant something to him even from the start. That kind of retroactive affection was a perilous thing to admit, much less to hear tell of.

In terms of firsts, Barba got out ahead, crossed the finish line and accepted the medal, acclaim, and breakfast cereal endorsement all in one fell swoop. 

“France?” he asked, face still hidden behind his book. 

“France?”

“Or Prague.”

“Or Prague,” Carisi repeated. 

“Prague, then?”

“No, not--what?” Carisi drew his knees in and curled forward, sitting up in search of Barba’s face. Maybe there, he’d find a coherent explanation.

Barba set down his book, but his expression gave little away.

“A vacation. We discussed this.” Barba kicked a bare foot out and gently knocked Carisi’s raised knee with it. “ _You_ brought it up.” 

“Yeah, um, once. _I guess._ ” Carisi frowned. The nearest thing they’d had to that conversation was over some late night fare, greasy and divine, while Carisi punched at the buttons on the remote in search of a baseball game. They’d paused for all of ten seconds on a travel advertisement for Mexico, to which Carisi had noted the perp he and the squad were eyeing for a string of missing kids was suspected of snatching two out of a Mexican resort in the 90’s.

He’d followed up with, _“Nice beaches, though,”_ and then found the Yankees game. 

Even in hindsight, it could hardly be misconstrued a play to play tourist on some ghost-white sandy shore. He smiled dumbly, certain that Barba knew he was making considerable leaps in logic. He decided to play along. 

“And you thought, Europe?”

Barba didn’t miss a beat. “Would you rather Africa? Because I could be swayed towards Morocco.”

The smile spilling over Carisi’s face suddenly stilled, a factory ceasing production. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” Barba said with the same acrid tone he used when answering for idiotic questions in court. Then, more leniently, he added: “Oh, Hep A and Typhoid shots, if we do Morocco.” 

_We._ Barba wasn’t kidding. He was always very particular in his speech--Carisi heard so many phrasings of _You and I,_ it was as though Barba was constantly padding out a school essay for length.

“You really want to go on a trip?” _With me?_

This seemed, in Carisi’s professional opinion, suspect. He’d told Barba for months--each way less subtle than the last--that he ought to take a break. Barba’s usual replies of _Of course. Eventually. Not now. I’m busy._ were worlds away from this, and never so much as brought Carisi into their orbit. 

For his own purposes, Barba did not feel the need to confirm what was already understood. Instead, he went on to talk in abstracts about the seasons--how they could do France or Prague now, but should wait until September for Morocco, and he was due two weeks off, and did Carisi think he could get about the same? Each thought spilled from its predecessor and Carisi found it impossible to keep up.

More to the point, Carisi had to fight every impulse he had to repeat what Barba was telling him, echoing the same details as if he'd just surreptitiously overheard them rather than being told outright. _A trip! Two weeks! Did you hear? June! September!_

Barba kept talking. The words came easily, and he drew them together in loose tendrils, like he was gathering a length of rope for Carisi to hang himself. 

Theirs was a new relationship, a reality dictated by circumstance but affirmed by choice. What came before was a product of impulse, a mutation of desire and necessity shaped by the uncertain world in which they both inhabited. It survived only by some absurd chance: like a sprouting seed in a landscape stricken lifeless, genuine affection had announced itself.

The old ways were gone; Carisi did not simply arrive and walk a well-worn path from the doorway straight into bed. He lingered, and Barba was there to meet him. Barba diverted his path and Carisi chose to gamely follow. He met every obstacle thrown his way--a meal to draw him into the kitchen, a book to bait him into the living room--and lobbed a few of his own. 

Carisi would enter Barba’s apartment with a prop, essentially. An article he thought Barba would find interesting, a convoluted legal question, cherry tomatoes, and--once, though Barba made it impossible for either to forget it--a picture of a dog on his phone which Carisi presented in all sincerity, proclaiming: _You look just like him._

Death was no longer imminent, and so the notion of immediate sexual gratification lost its luster. 

The meals, books, and time seemed to spell their own cause. Each man had a responsibility, now, less so to one another’s life, but to its health. Read this book, _you’ll be better for it._ Eat this meal, _it’s everything my home ever was._

They did these things by degrees. Barba was tentative in ways he hadn't been when seeking sex or physical company, while Carisi found his strengths in exactly these little professions. Time, space. He commanded them. 

Carisi sensed a similar directive, here. Another first: a vacation, a bizarre notion on its face, but Barba did them both one better and presented the notion whole. France--or Prague or Morocco--like it was a coin flip, the answer simple, the choice immaterial. 

Carisi imagined the French countryside, counting the days with Barba by bottles of wine and nothing else. In Morocco, he pictured the desert sun on Barba’s back, browning him to perfection. When night fell, he’d still glow with the day’s warmth on his face and shoulders. And _Prague_ \--Carisi didn’t know one fucking thing about Prague.

He thought it might be ancient, a place built in stone and drawn up to the heavens by providence. It had to be great, or else Barba would not waste his time on it. 

The pendulum swung the other way and Carisi was consumed with the prospect of abject failure. Evenings and weekends were finite, grounded by the familiar haunts of their shared city. Meals were simple--a man had to eat. And in a city where anonymity could find you on your own block, company was king.

A vacation was different. It was meals and company and _purpose_ in shared abstraction. It could feel like an eternity falling, swept out into open air. 

“That sounds--” Carisi wet his lips and could still sense his smile. “ _Amazing._ But.” His gaze reached for Barba’s, then shrank from it as if ashamed. “Can we start small?” 

“If it’s a question of cost,” Barba started to say, then caught himself, and pointedly reined in his own expectations. “Or a ‘no’--”

“No, it’s not a no. It’s just.” Carisi couldn’t start in on _abstraction,_ so he grounded his argument in experience. All the same, the admission sank him back onto the floor where he stared up at the white ceiling, eyes glazed like a fish suffocating in plain air. 

“Sixth grade. I had my first ever girlfriend, Julie Alderson, and we went to D.C. to tour the White House with our Civics class.”

A wry smile tugged at one corner of Barba’s mouth. “Did you sit together on the bus? Hold hands? I’m jealous already.”

“We broke up at the Washington Monument.” _God,_ it _still_ hurt.

Barba, on the other hand, sat up. He seemed to take great pleasure in the telling of Carisi’s first heartbreak. 

“Are you afraid I’m going to leave you high and dry at the Eiffel Tower?”

“So it’s France, now?”

“Or Prague or Morocco.”

Suddenly the sun seemed too bright, and Carisi threw his forearm over his eyes. “I spent another three days with her. _And_ the ride home. We were _seat buddies._ ” 

“Aw,” Barba said, and while his tone was sardonic as ever, he was genuinely touched. He’d known young love, felt its sting when some goddess of grade school turned her back to his most ardent affections: the offering of a pencil, his window seat on the bus. A child’s most prudent declarations of love, all. 

But they were things he left in the past; childish feelings in a child were surprisingly tender, but no right-minded adult would ever apply those instincts now, much less adhere to them as guiding practices.

“I can only promise you we won’t take the bus.”

“Thanks,” Carisi muttered. “That really does help.”

He found himself sinking into a well of excuses so deep he could have drowned in them and never known their end. One matter seemed nearest the top, and Carisi knew he wouldn’t break through without speaking it aloud.

“What if we do go on a trip. And it’s _awesome._ And you don’t get sick of me and we have all this fun.” Neither Carisi nor Barba thought he’d successfully hid his concern, there. But he continued, and Barba began to understand that his concerns were unending. He saw that Carisi had thought deeply about their relationship and every viable means of keeping it. 

“...And then I don’t get to talk about it when we come back. No word of explanation for where I went. No pictures or stories, ‘cause you’d be in all of them.”

The conceit was so plainly sincere, a heartbreak as genuine as the one he’d faced with Julie Alderson. Barba would be there, at his side as they strolled some unfamiliar grounds, but ultimately Carisi would be returning empty-handed. 

Barba could only reply: “Ah.” 

Barba decided against arguing that it was easier to obfuscate the truth than Carisi seemed to know. Dismissals like _Who would ask? Who would care?_ satisfied Barba well enough, but maybe Carisi had ample answers for both. _My family, my friends. My barista!_

He rallied his courage, which dispatched sarcasm as a first defense. “So for the sake of your conscience, we should go on a mediocre trip to, say, Cleveland?”

“I love Cleveland,” Carisi said, sounding dejected. Had that been a possibility, too? “Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, hello.” 

Barba huffed an annoyed sigh, but kept his comment-- _comparable to the Louvre, I’m sure_ \--to himself. With a snap of its pages, he returned to his book. 

Carisi sat up, leaned back on the strength of his elbows. Barba hadn’t pulled his foot back into place, and the limb dangled like an act of physical deception. _You can still have this. Just reach out and take it._

Carisi stared at the shape of Barba’s foot--narrow, strong, almost delicately devoid of errant hairs. He still inhabited a strange dichotomy wherein he welcomed that foot between his legs as they laid together, let it inch him open towards intent. But he didn’t dare touch it, now. 

“Or you could go. And have a lot of fun. And tell me all about it.” Carisi did his level best to make it sound like a feasible change of plans, nevermind that it was an entire departure. Embarrassed that he’d had--and lost--this opportunity in all of a matter of minutes, Carisi asked into Barba’s silence, “Is that a no on the trip, then?”

“No, it’s not a no, Carisi,” Barba said while echoing Carisi's own words, “I’m just waiting for what promises to be a stunningly brilliant suggestion in lieu of my own. Go ahead, outdo Paris.”

_Oh._

“Oh,” Carisi said, and felt like he had to answer ahead of a ticking clock. That his input was valued--to a point--was a hard-learned lesson. His only hope for success was to say exactly what he meant in as few words as possible, and strike the right tone between confidence and nonchalance, as if the answer and its reception were farthest from his mind. 

He got it in two.

“Um. Boston.”

Barba sat up straight as a board. “Boston?”

“Yeah,” Carisi said, and after a second taste he found himself warming to the idea more than when he’d initially proposed it. He liked the sound of it on Barba’s lips, the wary interest he held just out of reach. Carisi smiled, selling every assurance. “You’re always giving me shit about Fordham. I want to see Harvard.” 

Barba raised his eyebrows as if to ask, _So that’s how it is?_ Carisi was racing to the frontlines of a losing battle if he wanted to champion any school against Barba’s. And to drive home the complete confidence held in his own institution, Barba returned to his lazy recline on the couch. 

“To, what, see for yourself that an institution of higher learning can exist without being bookended by bodegas? ”

“Yeah,” Carisi said, still grinning. “But mostly, I want _you_ to show me around.” 

On the face of it, Barba did not like the idea. He couldn't very well get lost in a place he'd lived in for several years. It was true, he'd seen less of Boston than he'd intended, but he'd known every inch of Harvard, and a little of that carried both ways. Boston was bright and clean and sunny in a way New York could never be. The crowds of people were different, slow-moving but accepting of it in one another. There was history in the city’s creation and heart in its preservation, but there was more of that in spades in half of Europe. 

The true selling point, it would seem, was Carisi's own excitement: the interest he had in seeing where it was Barba began his career was palpable. 

Barba wasn't so cold that the sentiment didn't warm his heart, but still he was wary. His only intention was to give Carisi what both men had been craving: the freedom to walk too close together, to guide one another’s gaze with a hand, not an order. There was freedom to be had in anonymity, and strange though the association, anonymity was serviced by a passport. It clung to the individual who carried his very name and association with him in greatest care.

Though, for his own purposes, Barba simply wanted to get away. 

There wasn't a break to be had between his assault and the subsequent trial, and none thereafter. It was imperative that he continue to do his best work. 

But winter passed into spring, and summer announced itself heavily across the city. Everyone was taking vacations, and Barba thought he could slip in one of his own under the guise of the warmth and custom. He so needed it that he quickly forwent any concerns that he wasn’t even getting off the east coast to take it. 

_Any port in a storm,_ he thought. 

“Could take a long weekend,” Barba suggested. He withdrew his hand from behind his head and plucked a piece of nonexistent lint from his t-shirt. 

“Drive back early Monday morning,” Carisi added, an agreement masked as a proposal.

“We’ll fly,” Barba insisted, glancing warily at Carisi from over the cover of his book. Vacations and road trips were different animals entirely, and between a cat and a lion, he only wanted one in his house. “Next weekend too soon to run it by Liv? Get Friday off?”

“Nah, Fin owes me one.” Carisi was smiling so broadly it was a wonder he could summon words, let alone issue them through so many teeth.

Without warning, Carisi bounded forward, crossing the space through which they’d levied their conversation, and kissed Barba. His angle was poor and he caught only the side of Barba’s mouth, but all the same he transferred warmth, wetness, and _that smile._

“What? Too much?” he pulled back, face pink. Though proximity had hindered his vision, Carisi could nonetheless detect the weary expression on Barba’s face. “Should I have gone in for a handshake?”

Barba pursed his lips further.

Smirking, Carisi tried again. “Blowjob?”

“That’d be my preference,” Barba hummed, and stretched his leg open a fraction wider. It did not escape him, then, that Carisi performed this task in his Sunday best. 

-

If Barba did not sleep well that night, if it wasn’t for his guilty conscience over the desecration of church clothes. 

Nor was it neatly chalked it up to their pleasant weekend plans, a first and therefore a thing rife with subconscious turmoil. 

Barba knew better. _If it wasn’t broke,_ after all. 

Remembering his assault proved difficult. Barba found he kept imbuing it with current feelings, grander claims of understanding it anew. The fraught, tense nature of its original happening was lost to him now. He supposed he could always _go to the videotape._ It was securely kept in police evidence, but he just so happened to have a particular _in_ with the unit. 

The prospect of asking Carisi to acquire the video made Barba ill. He wondered how far he’d get into the request before chasing it with a lie, suggesting that his own therapist thought it could be a useful tool in the continuation of his therapy, and (he’d huff) didn’t Carisi want him to get over all this bullshit? 

For the nth time, Barba excused the idea from the forefront of his mind. _Useless,_ he told himself. _And unnecessary._

For all intents and purposes, he was better. At the very least, he took every pain to look that way. 

He’d spent months shoring up his reputation in the courtroom, taking care never to step behind that imaginary line that put him back in the peanut gallery. He took every case made available to him, and swindled a few into his care that were not. He went against Calhoun maybe a week after the fact and resoundly tore her case to shreds. He similarly threw down on the next case, and the case after that, sending away criminal after criminal, each with a sentence harsher than the last. It became a running joke in the courthouse halls: if you wanted to win an unwinnable case, give it to Barba. 

The D.A. himself was even overheard saying of Barba’s recent streak: “Hell of a thing. The man could get _Bush v. Gore_ overturned retroactively.”

And though he shined brighter under all that golden light, Barba took none of it to heart. Favor was won and lost with the turn of a jury, a snide word from a judge outside of chambers. To put stock in such a thing was to bid your fortune adieu. 

But it worked well enough for his purposes, and there was less talk of his ordeal than had previously been the case. Attention was brought instead to the fact that he was striking to record things that would outlast him--caselaw, precedent, even a few life sentences. Those were particularly gratifying. They were so decidedly undecided. 

In the midst of his tsunami of victories and hardwon sentences, Rafael Barba was slowly coming to terms with a fear he had never given much thought to: his work could be timeless--or at least seem that way to those he prosecuted--but Barba himself was painfully mortal. 

Aging did not frighten him; he felt as though he grew more and more into his own skin every year. Sickness could be a burden, not an end. Everything else--heartbreak and uncertainty and loss--was just the stuff of living. 

The mortality Barba feared was only his own by default. Rather, it was the entire concept that kept him awake, that stirred into him a drumming terror that every breath since the last he’d taken at his dining table was borrowed, and his life now was halved by the experience. Already cut, but yet to fall. He felt like a tree severed from its roots. A cool breeze could take him down.

And what scared him more than the actual act against his person were the unintended consequences of its failure. The life he led or didn’t lead for reasons here or there was purposeless when confronted by the unconscionable desire to end it. 

Others’ desire. And in those few moments of terror that had him sat at his own table, the thought was his own. 

He reasoned as much during therapy, arguing the point like a case he stood to win. He couldn’t undo what was done to him anymore than he could toss out the whole of it--his part included--call it a fluke and carry on. 

(“I went along with it,” he’d said, ad nauseam. He stood or leaned against the window in his therapist’s office, never once taking a seat. That would be showing his hand and tantamount to saying, _Here is my pain. It’s so heavy on my shoulders I need to rest my body._

Barba had said, “I was complicit in a crime against my own person. How did the defense not ask me that? Did they? Did I perjure myself? I perjured myself.”

His therapist called it survivor’s guilt, but Barba had balked outright at the thought. 

“ _How?_ It was only _me._ ”)

Closing his eyes and willing a return to sleep, Barba tried to ignore the voices in his head--his own, mostly, sometimes his mother’s and sometimes his therapist’s, who sounded a _great deal_ like his mother, but that was a reckoning for another day. He forged a quiet space within himself, a practice born from a youth spent in a crowded apartment building with thin walls practically flayed open to expose the other families stored around him, his open window a peak inside the dealings of the groups of men who congressed on the stoop below. Now long-since perfected, he stepped into the dark, deep void and found silence, if not peace. 

There was his own breathing to focus on, which--when given the attention--made for an alien tune. Slow and measured, it should have been a pleasantly familiar song. Barba found it to be dizzying in the depths it plumbed to sustain him. 

Thoughts of Carisi crept in, and Barba didn’t have the heart to shut him out. 

It was true, their discussion had its cheerful result. Not quite the result he’d wanted, but maybe Carisi had a point and branching out towards familiar territory was best. Wins all around, they should both be so pleased. But Barba’s success was tempered by the fact that he’d put a great deal more thought into the matter than Carisi’s split-second decision allowed. He had plotted and planned, starting even with the day. 

The moments where they could share a lazy couple of hours were themselves rare, if not entirely contrived. Barba himself had calculated the time he could spend doing just _that,_ holding up some foggy imagine of balance in his life. He fit Carisi into that picture, and specifically chose Sunday for Carisi to arrive early in the afternoon only to stir him from his sleep.

They shared coffee and the last quiet dregs of the week. It felt so easy, but it was a mission built on precision, and all the while Barba was marking each step as he readied for launch.

_Coffee, check. Quips and smiles, check. Is he on the floor? Of course he is. Double check._

Carisi always went to Mass on Sundays, and it had only taken them one instance of him leaving from Barba’s apartment without Barba in tow to conclude that he should never do such a thing again. He had not been sure whether to extend an invitation only to be lied to or--worse--told the abject truth: _I don’t want to._

That first Sunday-- _months ago,_ now--Barba had snorted offhandedly and told the truth. 

So Carisi never stayed over on a Saturday, never let their company bleed into Sunday, where the life he’d had before Barba--and surely the life he’d have after Barba--stood as pronounced as any of the City’s gleaming cathedrals. 

Barba wasn’t smarted by that fact. It went both ways. 

Barba took the day to sleep late because as soon as Carisi left the previous night, he’d sat himself at his desk and sank six gritty hours into a pile of casework. Carisi would see him bleary-eyed the next morning and think him a layabout, and Barba would feel sick for focusing his eyes again on the Sunday paper after he’d spent half the night reading depositions and police reports, like his career was something he had to smuggle out from under the noses of his own colleagues. 

The effort was needlessly large, but Barba felt it was the only way he could have both--felt he’d _earned_ both.

He held a great deal of inexplicable tenderness towards Carisi, who could hardly hide his own appreciation--and sometimes didn’t--for Barba, whose intellect he applauded, whose dress he imulated, whose heart he sought. Whose life he valued and feared for, which may not have inspired confidence, but did the greater work of convincing Barba his own concerns did not amount to personal paranoia run amok. 

Barba twisted out of his sheets and kicked the sum of them towards the end of his bed. He lay in the artificial cool of his room, exposing himself to noone and nothing. 

He was ashamed to only feel a fraction of the same towards Carisi. Or if not less--because how a thing could be quantified, he did not know--then simpler. Carisi was kinder than was good for him and cleverer than he knew by half, so appreciating him was easy. But his youth was just as easily conflated with invincibility, and amidst the dangers of his work, Barba saw the goodness in Carisi and thought, _No, not him. Never him. He’s necessary. He’s safe._

And therein was another answer for his attraction, though Barba did not tempt the fates by putting his mind to the issue and risking those words spilling into being. 

He didn’t tell Carisi to _be careful_ or _stay safe,_ possibly because he knew the uselessness of those sentiments. Or just as likely, they’d been stricken from his vocabulary. 

From his lips, cooling unspoken on his tongue, they sounded too much like a prayer. 

He trusted Carisi to know as much, but even that was playing into faith.

Where he was lacking words, Barba poured affection over Carisi’s shoulders, whispered it inside his mouth, and coaxed it from the man’s own form. And in doing so, he was able to excuse his own shortcomings for the sake of the broader picture: it was thrilling to want and to be wanted in turn. 

Barba sighed aloud. The sound rattled throughout the bedroom, touching corners and bouncing off the ceiling. He didn't like to think so deeply on matters of the heart. It was too broad a topic not to invite his own discerning judgments. They arrived swiftly, uninvited guests making up the whole of the party.

Carisi was in his life because Barba wanted him there, and timing, circumstance, and luck had altogether conspired to find Carisi well. Why see the odds fall in his favor and still question them?

The darkness hugging his vision weakened, and Barba could see plainly the vestiges of his bedroom. The dresser that doubled for a bookshelf, the hideous fern that wouldn’t die, two bedside tables. And though he couldn’t see it, Barba knew there was a baseball bat tucked neatly under his side of the bed, a last-ditch effort on Carisi’s part to see that Barba was protected when Carisi wasn’t in bed next to him. 

(“Nevermind that I haven’t held one of these since grade school,” Barba had tutted when Carisi arrived with the thing, all smiles, as if he was bringing any old housewarming gift. 

Carisi hadn’t been deterred. “I mean, if you want to _literally_ throw a book at somebody, go for it. There’s just a touch more elegance in the swing, you know?”)

His new apartment was a grander thing than his old one, and the overtime he’d put in over the past several months may one day prove necessary in keeping it comfortably. 

It was tucked into a recently renovated building in midtown, totally respectable, outfitted with two elevators and a doorman. The landlord was a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, which might as well have been family. He’d chosen the apartment like a prom date--it wasn’t forever, but there would be pictures. 

He’d then filled it with everything he couldn’t spare, and invited Carisi, too. 

The space was orderly and secure--to the letter, what his therapist had recommended. What even the most vague acquaintance seemed to suggest, too, as they gauged his face in the courthouse elevators, making him for _that_ ADA. The world knew his problem and, conveniently, had the solution. 

But from the first night there, sleeping soundly with company pressed to his side, until now, where he lay awake and alone, plagued with idle thoughts and imaginings, the apartment meant less and less. It wasn’t a fortress, just an overpriced place to rest his head and receive donation requests from Harvard’s alumni association. It was soon eclipsed entirely by another need: the unexpected impulse to strike out. 

Despite every effort to rebuild for himself what he’d lost in the city, Barba wanted further away from Manhattan than even the Bronx. 

He wanted to see more than what was just over his shoulder. A mountain piercing the sky, beach that sank into endless sea, a sun that held high over all. Or, apparently, puritan-founded Boston, Massachusetts, an _infant_ in the grand scheme of the geographical and manmade giants on which Barba had set his sights.

He hadn’t felt this way since his childhood in the Bronx, and the fervor for which he needed a change of scenery concerned him. 

Barba thought about sitting up, getting out of bed, doing something with his consciousness other than mope. Drink? Masturbate? Take up smoking? He couldn’t decide on a vice, but sat up anyway and sought the hour. 

Five-thirty. He supposed he could jog for an hour--maybe make a last-ditch effort towards bodily fitness since he wouldn’t have the cooler weather in Prague to shape his wardrobe into flattering layers.

Out of defiance or dread, the idea put him soundly back to sleep. 

-

Flat whites in hand--and a caramel latte for Fin, who knew?--Carisi was more cheerful than the day, hour, and subject of their work allowed. He distributed his goods and took the first opportunity to speak with his Lieutenant, leading with a coffee as he entered her office to make his plea. 

“Barba’s finally taking a vacation and he said I could come,” Carisi announced without so much as a preamble or greeting. Benson raised her eyebrows, but finished her first sip. “No, I mean--he asked where I wanted to go, first of all.” Carisi was still pleased with that. “And I may have talked myself out of, like, _all of Europe,_ but--”

Benson held up a hand to silence him. “How many days, Carisi?”

“Just this Friday. Fin already said he’d cover for me.” He couldn’t seem to stop smiling, and every time his lips touched in absence of a word, the corners of his mouth would tug to attention, and his teeth would find an opening. “And I’d need to not be on call this weekend, either. But I’ll be back Monday morning, and I can make up those on-call hours.” 

“Short trip,” Benson observed, put picked up a pen to make a note of it. Asking had been Carisi’s only hurdle, and the prize was now his. Still, as she made a note of the reasoning she’d list on the form, her pen stalled, and Benson remarked, “I’m happy for you. Barba’s heard the same from me. But--I’m not in the habit of keeping secrets.”

Still smiling, Carisi said, “It’s not a secret.”

Again, Benson raised her eyebrows. 

“From you,” Carisi corrected, his smile finally faltering. With contrition furrowing his brow and sending his gaze downcast, he looked embarrassed. “Um. I guess I see your point.”

He glanced over his shoulder to be sure he’d closed the door behind him before addressing his lieutenant again, asking bluntly, “So you think we should come out?”

Benson wondered if he’d given her the coffee out of some comedic inspiration--that she’d do a doubletake and spit for as often as she felt inclined in just a few moments of conversation. She swallowed her tentative sip and set the coffee on a far corner of her desk. 

“I think that’s something for you and Barba to decide,” she said, and was surprised when Carisi fell silent. She imagined he’d tell her in too much detail that they’d discussed it--or not--and revisit all the arguments for her benefit. He did no such thing. Into the silence, she spoke: “You know you’ll have my full support.” 

Benson seemed to sense the inadequacy of her words--as if she’d offer anything less. She strived to support her detectives in every possible way, regarding them as people as well as officers. Benson knew that her efforts could not merely be implied, they had to be actively practiced, whether it was Fin and his slow--but sincere--efforts to rebuild himself as a father or Rollins and her vices, or--

She caught herself, drew back the name from the forefront of her mind and held it carefully back. 

_No,_ she thought tiredly, Dodds’ biggest problem had been his work ethic.

Because she’d given up naiveté long ago, Benson felt compelled to add: “And if it’s the case that you both decide not to do so, that’s also fine. But to that point, maybe you should resign yourselves to a little housekeeping.” Her gaze shifted past Carisi and settled in the bullpen, where Fin was on the phone and Rollins had just stood from her desk to speak with a walk-in. 

“Tell them or decide what to tell them,” Carisi parsed. His lieutenant gave a slight nod of confirmation. 

She thought with his height he would look more awkward carrying a secret, but he seemed to take it on like a responsibility, shouldering it calmly. 

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Carisi asked, and true to form did not await confirmation. “Do you think it’s me?” 

He seemed desperate to know. Maybe he'd been asking himself as much and didn't like the answer. Benson was not unaware of her standing as--potentially--the only person clued into his relationship with their ADA. It afforded her, she thought, too much responsibility in the matter. Carisi would see her as an expert voice simply because hers was the only one touched with enough insight to able to even _speak_ to the predicament. 

She mentally chastised herself for that term-- _predicament._ Carisi didn’t have Barba over a barrell, and Barba hadn’t taken liberties with some doe-eyed youth. 

Benson answered carefully all the same.

“In all the years that I’ve known him, Barba never talked about anyone he may have been seeing.” She wouldn’t chalk it up to care, either. At best, he’d displayed mild disinterest on the topic as a whole. “But he talks about you.” 

The smile returned to Carisi’s face, but only by half. 

“Could just be that’s because you know me,” he reasoned, then carried on awkwardly: “Know both of us. We all know each other.” 

“Could be,” Benson allowed, and again reached for her coffee. “But I don’t think so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: travel, selfies, and the best Boston has to offer.


	2. Chapter 2

New York to Boston was a three and a half hour trip by train. They were halfway through, and Barba was still revolting against it, refusing to make the best of the scenic ride.

Carisi kicked out the toe of his sneaker to nudge Barba’s taupe-colored desert boots. They spilled forth from an otherwise meticulous (if not uncharacteristically plain) look: dark brown khakis and a white dress shirt, something softer than his usual fare, perhaps touched with linen. All the same, Carisi felt underdressed by comparison. Admittedly, when Carisi arrived at Barba’s apartment early that morning, his snug jeans and raglan sleeved t-shirt were cause for some delay. 

Carisi stepped on the short length of rust-colored laces that _just_ looped onto the floor. It was tantamount to playing footsie, and Carisi knew Barba wouldn’t stand for it.

“Are you still working?” Carisi asked needlessly. The set expression on Barba’s face as he read through emails and responded in vast detail was answer enough. 

“One of the many downsides of the train,” Barba said, finally speaking after over an hour of silence since they boarded the train. He’d said less--even--when Carisi offered him trail mix. And he hadn’t uttered a solitary _word_ when Carisi brought him the morning’s second coffee from the cafe car. 

Carisi sighed. 

“Bothered? You chose this for me.” 

“Look at that view, though!”

“Sky and water?” Barba guessed without once looking up. “Almost as if we were in a plane.” 

“I didn’t ask the airline to confuse me with my father and flag both our names,” Carisi reminded him. “You know he’s stuck in Italy right now with his cousins?”

“Oh, no, the Italian countryside? He’s stranded with all that culture and wine? Send my deepest condolences.” With his elbow poised on the windowsill and his jaw resting against his fist, Barba’s dismissive words came out garbled. He didn’t make an effort towards clarity. 

“You haven’t met these guys,” Carisi insisted, and shuddered instinctively. “Old school mafia. I’m, like, 99% sure. One time, when I was eight--”

Barba hummed loudly to disrupt the tale’s telling. “Unless this story is going to end with a severed horse’s head on Christmas morning, I’ll have to pass.”

Carisi pursed his lips, then corrected, “It was a man shot through the hand on Easter Sunday. _Stigmata style._ ”

It was almost enough to make Barba regret his tone and hear Carisi out. His pride got the better of him and headed off any apologies, halfhearted or no. Barba could have gone on a tear about it, too: Carisi was a cop, would they come for him? Turn him towards their cause? If he took up the law as a profession, would they bring him into the fold, a newly minted mob lawyer? And however would he signal the change? He already put too much gel in his hair. Regrow the heinous mustache, perhaps? 

Regrettably, Carisi would not bear witness to Barba’s glittering wit. 

It wasn’t ten minutes later before Carisi started in again. Only now, his tone was hushed and uneasy. 

“Hey,” he said, and Barba wondered why he didn’t take the more subtle route and resort to throwing a ball of wadded up paper and hissing, _Psst!_

“More childhood horror stories?” Barba muttered. “Is this entire train ride going to be awash in recovered memories? Should I find you some tissues--?”

“That guy is checking me out.”

Barba glanced upwards, saw that Carisi had made himself oddly small in his seat by angling the whole of himself towards Barba and the window between them. He was nudging his eyebrows towards some supposed offender, though Barba didn’t concern himself with the task of stealing a look.

“Lucky you,” he said primly, and continued tapping at a rapid fire pace across his phone. 

“Like, really,” Carisi said with some surprise. “Looking up under the sneeze guard at a buffet kind of checking me out.”

 _Poetic,_ Barba thought, then teased, “Do I need to go over there and have a word with his mother, or are you just showing off?”

Carisi huffed a disagreeable breath. Barba had come to read his signals well; sometimes a plain word was… Inadvisable. With enough practice, it had become unnecessary. They could read paragraphs into a cough or a tired look. A smile may as well have been a sonnet.

In the ensuing silence, Carisi’s honesty became apparent, and the next thing Barba heard was an ardent refusal he hadn’t asked for. 

“I wouldn’t, you know?” 

Barba finally lifted his gaze off his phone, and spied the man who was apparently so lacking for mediocrity in life that he was cruising another man on an Amtrak train at nine in the morning. Dark hair and light eyes, a face so pale and delicate it reminded Barba of origami, he was exceedingly handsome--too much so for the train, in fact. Barba stretched out his leg so that it pierced the “v” made by Carisi’s, and served the interloper a dirty look. 

All the same, he had to admit: “He’s very handsome. Who could blame you?”

“Would you, uh…” Carisi finished his question in a gesture: both his index fingers, circling each other like vultures. Barba let him suffer through it for a time. 

“Are you trying to ask if I’m gay or monogamous? And by that logic, are you suggesting those are mutually exclusive?” Barba said, his tone prickling with amusement. Carisi, to his credit, looked mortified. And he wasn’t mocking Barba’s insistence on first class seats and the privacy they afforded, now.

Barba continued typing out a work email on his phone when he answered, his tone level as brushed stone, “More the latter, if it behooves you to know. For simplicity’s sake, really. Less the former, because _fuck simplicity.”_

For as precisely as he chose his words, Barba spoke with some bite. Carisi stared wide-eyed, but nodded all the same. 

_Cool. Cool._

“I’ve had girlfriends,” Carisi started. A generally inoffensive sentence he seemed to default to when he and Barba discussed sex rather than doing it. Barba never heard tell of these girlfriends where it counted, so he let it slide. “Serious girlfriends. And guys, well. You’re my first--”

Barba's eyes bugged. “Your _first_ \--?”

“-- _serious_ boyfriend,” Carisi clarified. A rush of pink to his cheeks signaled the fumbling of a defense: “I mean, if that’s the term, here--”

“No objections,” Barba said, now faintly smiling. He heard Carisi suck in a breath of relief. 

He thought on their strange coupling, how convenience wasn’t _really_ the name of the game, though it suited their respective purposes. The excuse had its smoking guns, so to speak: Benson and Cassidy, Rollins and Amaro. It was easier to think this sort of thing was happening around them and they’d just stepped into it. 

They were just innocent bystanders. 

Could have happened to anybody. 

Barba’s smile waned. “Well aren’t we a queer pair.”

He watched the word hit Carisi at an angle, saw that he shifted to avoid it.

“I’ve been with guys before. Incidentally.” 

Barba snorted. He knew that offhand tone and vague wording; it was a language all its own. “I’m sorry, was it neck-and-neck until the end? Incidentally how?”

How they’d managed to never discuss their respective sexual histories eluded Barba. It was just his luck they’d come to light in such a setting as an Amtrak train car.

“Just… you know,” Carisi was practically squirming in his seat, as if every association he held with men was as valued as a state secret. As if Barba hadn’t already cracked the code. “If I thought he really liked me.”

Barba had to smirk at that. He released his index finger from the fist he was resting against, tapped it against his own lips as if in meager applause. “What a benevolent king you are.” 

“My point being, no. I _wouldn’t_ with… that guy.”

A categorical denial. Although Carisi had a long and storied history of ridiculous utterances making their way past even the foot perpetually lodged in his mouth, Barba hadn’t expected less. Still, the prospect held some interest, and Carisi had opened the door. 

Barba chose to question him: “So what are we talking here, ballpark?”

“Ballpark, how many men like me?”

“I’m thinking, roughly, two,” he said, not intentionally low-balling it, but assuming Carisi used the term _guys_ literally, and even then only by the skin of his teeth. Barba grinned into Carisi’s petulant silence. “Two and a half?”

“Present company excluded, _I guess,_ ” Carisi hemmed and hawed over giving confirmation, ran a hand over his mouth as interference, but eventually admitted: “Yeah, two.” 

Barba felt like he’d scored a goal in a sport he’d never played, in front of thousands of onlookers he’d never meet. He maybe knew Carisi better than the man had bargained for; it was a thing due its swell of pride. 

“It’s an interesting working theory,” Barba commended smartly. “Sleeping with someone who likes you. Inspired.”

“You should give it a try sometime,” Carisi shot back, but his eyes were soft, his gaze tenderly set, much like his bottom lip as he drew it absently between his teeth. He looked at the 80’s style pattern on the seat cover, then Barba’s foot beyond it, stationed like a heat-seeking missile, and said, “Thing is, I don’t think I want anymore girlfriends.”

For as slowly as he said those words, he might have been able to walk them back or, at the very least, recalculate and rephrase enroute. He let them stand. 

Barba did something similar, and in that respect his behavior was wholly uncharacteristic. He was quiet, then cautious in his speech. It was suddenly deeply imperative that he undercut Carisi's sentiment. 

He tread lightly with a joke: “Turned another one, have I?” His smile, though some ways genuine, was precisely tailored--one corner lifted, wry, easy, cool. “I’ll have to carve another notch in my queering block of wood.”

His was a swift victory, and Carisi rolled his eyes in defeat. He scuffed his sneaker against the floor again. “You think that guy would mind a little company…?”

“I think he’d welcome it, open-mouthed,” Barba said, and scratched the hollow of his cheek. It was an audible gesture due to the unshaven growth there. “He’s still looking at you. It’s obscene.”

Carisi smirked, pleased. He pointed to his own face, mimicking what he saw in Barba’s. “I like where this is going, by the way.”

“I hope that’s sincere,” Barba tutted. “Because I don’t shave on vacation. As a rule.”

It was hardly some grand revelation, Carisi thought, and pointed out, “You don't shave on weekends, either.”

“I adhere to my rules,” Barba said, affording the day’s worth of growth like a prospective marathon. There was preparation involved. “I’m only saying. I’ve got the jump of a day, here.”

Carisi grinned. “Prepare myself?”

“Prepare yourself.”

Barba realized he’d been conned into a playful discussion. He frowned instinctively. Carisi offered him trail mix again, and out of some twisted and petty sense of retribution, Barba refused. 

In the set of seats ahead of them, an older couple stirred awake. They’d been on the train since before Barba and Carisi, so they placed them as Jersey natives. This much, Barba thought, was born out when they began talking incessantly--and _loudly_ \--and put into perspective the fact that Barba and Carisi had practically been whispering to one another.

Barba, naturally, blamed Carisi for this grievous turn of events.

“We could have driven,” Carisi compromised, but Barba frowned petulantly at that idea, too.

“What is this fascination you have with ground transportation,” he muttered. “Next we’ll load the buggie with goods to take to town. Sell our wares because ma has taken ill.”

“I said, though--you remember what I said? You could have flown and I could have taken an earlier train.”

Barba sighed, his head rolling back to expose his throat. It was impossible to just _complain_ in Carisi’s presence--he took everything to heart and, like a mother hen, he went in search of some kernel of agreement. 

“But then you’d have never met the love of your life, _that guy,_ ” Barba said, and openly waved a hand in the man’s direction, though even this effort to not deter his gaze. “And I wouldn’t have been witness to this blossoming love affair.”

“That’s true,” Carisi said, and rolled his shoulders until he felt as loose as he was bemused. Barba was nothing if not quick with a cutting line or comment, but joking for the sake of doing so had always been just outside his purview. He’d smile at Carisi when he started in, and would even listen patiently for a spell, but it was as though he’d deemed his own involvement superfluous. “My life would be pretty lackluster without him.” 

From the Jersey couple, they overheard the husband proclaim indignantly: “George Clooney’s a communist! I won’t pay to see his movies. Goddamnit, Jean. You know me better than this.”* 

Barba took this as proof they should have gone to France. 

He glared at Carisi, who was only _just_ stifling his own laughter--at the couple or, more likely, at Barba’s look of complete disenfranchisement. 

“Next time, let’s catch a ride on the Hale-Bopp Comet,” Barba muttered darkly, and returned his attention to his phone’s glossy screen.

“Hey, people died.” _Nearly two decades ago,_ but still. 

“ _I’m_ dying. Slowly. Listening to them. On _Amtrak._ ” 

“I’m going to plan my life with the sneeze guard guy.”

“Good. Do so.”

“We’re going to be so happy,” Carisi taunted.

“Adopt dachshunds together,” Barba said. “See if I care.”

-

The train wasn’t the inescapable hell Barba claimed, and he and Carisi arrived at their hotel at an entirely respectable mid-morning hour.

“It’s hardly the French Riviera,” Barba announced as he set his small suitcase and garment bag in the spacious closet and joined Carisi, who had flung his own duffel onto the bed and made a beeline for the balcony. 

Admittedly, Barba was entirely aware of the fact that for all the time he’d spent in Cambridge and Boston, he’d never once held a view like this. The sprawling cityscape--its collection of buildings old and new, the green spaces littered between--was mostly behind them, so what they had instead was a gorgeous spell of coastline opening to a glittering bay filled with ships and colorful-sailed dinghies alike. 

It was a great, wide, unencumbered view. Barba couldn’t recall the last time he’d been a witness to one of those. 

Awaiting a tow truck on the side of the road off the Jersey Turnpike came closest, sadly.

Carisi leaned into him. “Hey, let’s take a picture--”

“Another one?” Barba asked, remembering feeling foolish on the train while Carisi first made his move.

“I’ve got the best arms for selfies. Everybody says so.”

“You meet a lot of fifteen-year-olds?”

“The world’s harshest critics, right there,” Carisi said, then swung an arm around Barba’s shoulders and pulled him into focus. “Smile.” 

Barba did as he was told. Despite his best efforts, his bemusement was overtaken by affection. 

All the same, he bid a hasty retreat. Leaving Carisi on the balcony, Barba surveyed the place. 

The hotel room was strange--beautiful, but sterile in the way all hotels were. The sense that there were any number of rooms exactly like theirs lining the halls and stacking the floors was inherently clinical. Barba felt a little like a patient there, himself. Time away from the city was, in no small measure, a form of treatment. Same as the scheduled sessions with his therapist and his reliance on alcohol were treatment, though he didn't take company with either of those. 

The bedding was pristine, the artwork and styling inoffensive. The whites and mints and greys of the bedroom were soft and calming. They did the trick, Barba thought, of widening the place. He almost passed over the realization that it was just the _one_ room, an _inherently_ shared space.

Barba stood at the center of it, his feet heavy on the trim carpet, hands curling weakly in search of shape. Direction. His efforts were scrapped with a disturbance to his left. Carisi had dropped his jeans and was rifling through his duffel bag. 

Although ready with some blue commentary or another-- _Are we breaking in the bed?_ \--Barba would only be disappointed. Carisi pulled a pair of khaki cargo shorts from his bag, then a pair of flip flops. 

Barba couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed.

“Interesting choice.” His hand took shape, now, as a dismissive wave at Carisi’s change in attire. 

“Like I’m going to wear flip-flops in New York, even for a second.” Carisi cracked. “Because I _want_ tetanus.”

Barba favored him with a pitiable look. “Flip-flops I can live with. I meant the unholy pair of cargo shorts.”

“I wear cargo shorts on vacation,” Carisi said, throwing his voice into a haughty tone Barba could only assume was a poor impression of him. Barba raised an eyebrow at the display. “As a rule.”

“Should I prepare myself for the forthcoming fanny pack?” Barba drawled. “Something to complete the trifecta?” 

“The _dad_ axis of evil?” Carisi asked as he hunched over to remove a sock. 

“I didn’t say you looked like anyone’s father,” Barba pointed out, and took another moment to scrutinize Carisi’s outfit. “Maybe the weekend guardian of a box turtle.”

Carisi grinned at him, wide and distant, like he was having trouble separating the joke from its cause. “Oh, _spooky._ I totally used to have one. Gerald.” 

“And we all mourn his passing.”

“Nah, I bet he’s still kicking around Staten Island.” 

Barba hated that he was right. He’d much rather have made Carisi laugh instead, but even his off-the-wall observation was not so absurd that Carisi couldn’t find truth in it, and then attribute that truth to some greater power Barba had of seeing into a person. Their intentions, desires, faults, histories--all presented themselves to him and him alone. The concept made Barba uneasy: what _couldn’t_ he say to Carisi, who believed so fully that he was in some shade of right with every word, off-hand or not? 

Barba realized, suddenly, what he was in for. Why his first thought had been France, too. 

In France, there were presumptions he could make in their dinner, dress, and activity. Paris was renowned for its culture, while Boston was better known for the way its terrible accent worked its mouth around words like a noose, choking off whole syllables. France held the promise of fine dining and impeccably hemmed slacks, a bare minimum in an attempt to meet the standards set by the locals.

Boston, with its bright skies and vestiges of early America curling around every corner, set a low bar. It was positively _domestic._

The thought didn’t leave Barba entirely dismayed. Time spent lazing around in his apartment with Carisi had become invaluable to him in recent months. It was slow and easy when nothing else was. All that set to a new backdrop should be nothing but pleasantness, yet whatever thrill he felt was secondary to a single concern: perhaps it wasn’t what he wanted. 

He felt his tongue start to sour in his mouth, and resolved not to say another word about the shorts, lest he slip and speak his mind. 

_Ha, those shorts, I swear--a metaphor for your complacency in my life, a status I allow like a ruler overseeing the rush of love-starved refugees into his kingdom, whispering altruism into their ears but orchestrating subjection. Am I right?_

Barba abandoned Carisi on the bed and returned to the closet where he’d left his belongings. From his own duffle, Barba collected a pair of stylized aviators, as if they might aid in the effort to obscure the shorts from his field of vision. They had great glassy lenses and narrow, bright orange frames. Carisi immediately wanted a pair of his own, but settled for smiling stupidly at Barba’s, which hung at the split of buttons on his shirt. With a little initiative, they could bring the whole thing down. 

“You got a haircut, too.” 

Barba said is with his back turned to Carisi. Barba had noticed the tapered trim around the ears and neck, the lighter touch of gel the moment Carisi arrived at his apartment that morning, but said nothing. He’d had complaining to do.

The softer tone--a great departure from the cargo short manifesto--momentarily threw Carisi, who touched the back of his head, as if still wary of the cut. 

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I guess.”

Barba chanced a half-smile. “Got to look good for those selfies.”

“So you think it looks good?” Carisi asked, grinning as sure as if the devil himself had told a joke.

Barba snorted in response. Carisi wasn't going to get it out of him that easily. He remained standing in the center of the room, not quite near anything. An imaginary chasm had opened up at his feet and kept him a fair distance from the bed. Nor was he positioned at the door, which would seem to telegraph too much of his desire to abandon this shared moment. 

“Hey,” Carisi said, his tone conspicuously assured, as if whatever ills Barba was broadcasting were known to him already as benign. Inconsistencies in transmission, nothing worthy of a second thought. “C’mere.”

The demand was quietly brazen. It only took four steps for Barba to comply, but he did so haltingly. It would not do, he thought, to become answerable to every sweet word Carisi threw his way. To do so would put his very career--his life--on permanent hold. Scientists would want to study him: he’d never stand straight again for perpetually falling into every request. 

He gave into Carisi now just to see how it felt. 

Each step was its own advance. Barba took them slowly, patiently. Carisi watched with growing anticipation. Carisi’s legs were splayed, and when Barba walked into the open “v,” he dragged his fingertips along Carisi’s thighs, revealing them out from under the heavy fabric of his shorts. He rested his palms on bare flesh, his thumbs finding the softest region as they reached low and inward.

It was proximity Barba had established, not intent. Carisi had become adept at telling the difference.

“You really like my haircut?” 

Barba moved his right hand from Carisi’s thigh and swept it over an ear. He came up empty where usually there was something to grasp and tug. He imagined the hair would feel different, the ends bearing a razor’s edge, but it was soft as ever. 

“It suits you.”

“Good,” Carisi said, then mimicked the move, catching Barba’s cheek in his open palm. He rubbed at the stubble with his thumb--something he’d been hungry for since the train. The hairs were sharp, a few decidedly gray amidst their darker brethren. He teased, “One of us has to clean up nice.”

Barba didn’t miss a beat: “One of us does.”

He promptly turned away. Even in jest, he wouldn't be insulted when-- _clearly_ \--he was the superior dresser in every conceivable way. This much was fact, written in stars and stone alike, from here until the end of time. No man--let alone one in gaping cargo shorts--would insinuate otherwise. 

Carisi caught his wrist, drew him back in. He curled both arms around Barba’s middle and planted his head against the man’s stomach when Barba wouldn’t entertain him further.

“Change of plans,” Carisi said into Barba’s shirt. This close, he could feel the precise weave of the fabric brush against his skin. “We stay in this room all weekend. We never leave.”

Barba put a hand in Carisi’s hair, sweeping it back, but careful not to muss it terribly. Paired with the college freshman attire, it was his saving grace. 

“If you mean to seduce me,” Barba said, his voice a low rumble that Carisi, his head to Barba’s middle, could practically taste on his lips. “Rethink the cargo shorts.”

Carisi dug his fingers into the soft of Barba’s backside, then groaned in want, “I’ll take ‘em off!”

“Too late,” Barba said, his voice a sudden ray of sunshine in the place of the rolling stormclouds. “The moment’s passed.” 

Barba left him with a measly kiss on the forehead, and--incidentally--an erection. To the latter, Barba reminded Carisi through the bathroom door that now they were even for having taken the train.

-

They resolved to spend their first day touring around the city by foot. It was slow goings to start--Carisi stopped at every perceivable landmark and cajoled Barba to stand for a picture at the site of one uprising, massacre, burial place, or another. Always, he made the same plea: “Let me have this, okay?”

The city itself was a parade of green earth and red brick under a cloudless blue sky. It held like a painting, precise in its landscape, but varying in its subjects. Sharply-dressed professionals and tired-eyed students littered the sidewalks. Cabbies and commuters took to the streets. Sometimes an entire tour bus of onlookers would slow production of all else in an attempt to make a hairpin turn onto one of the city’s main drags. 

They stopped for coffee at the first opportunity, barring all dozen sightings of Dunkin Donuts that came before. Their pace was leisurely, as they had nowhere to be. They paused to inspect the historic sites and monuments as they happened upon them. It wasn’t difficult; they defined the landscape. They punctuated every hill, graced the softest valleys, and curled around corners. 

“You’ve done your research,” Barba noted as Carisi pointed to yet another aged building--Boston’s Old South Meeting House--and declared its name and relevance. Barba kept his hands in his pockets, his sunglasses shielding his eyes. He was sure he’d been here before, if only briefly. When he looked at the building, he searched for the memory. 

“Nah,” Carisi dismissed readily from behind his phone as he snapped another photo. “I took 8th grade AP History.”

“So you could tell me the name of the Native American tribe members of the Boston Tea Party dressed as to disguise their participation?”

Carisi drew a blank. 

Barba cracked a bleak little smile. “God bless the American education system.”

In addition to his textbook history lessons, Carisi had a penchant for identifying other tourists and engaging them. This activity was a particular embarrassment of riches, as he was wont to throw an arm around Barba, rein him in, and force conversation. As they parted ways with a family of four from Halifax--the _second_ bunch of Haligonians they’d encountered, which only fed Barba’s indignity for the act--Barba grabbed Carisi by the arm.

“Please stop that.” Barba said flatly. “I don’t know these people.”

Carisi’s smile retained its glow. “That’s the point.”

“Nor do I want to know them,” Barba continued. “Is _my_ point.” His hold on Carisi’s upper arm slipped, slid until Barba was leading Carisi by the wrist. Hand-holding for beginners. “I came here to be with you, not--Jack and Jill Who-Gives-A-Shit.”

“Can you believe those are their names?” Carisi asked, ignoring the latter addition. He only spoke for the sake of it. What Barba had said hit him like a brick wall, and left him scrambling to pick up shattered pieces of the conversation. “Providence.” 

“Or something like,” Barba hummed. He suddenly found his grip on Carisi as overly warm, possibly to the point of discomfort. He released his hold and returned his own hands into his pockets. 

Aside from a few incidents wherein Carisi was fast to bound in and offer his services in taking a photo for a family or a couple, he ceded Barba’s point. It was no small boost to Barba’s pride that Carisi seemed happier for it, too. He practically paraded and danced in Barba’s orbit, orchestrating an entire performance. It was daunting in its sincerity. 

In turns he led and followed, slung an arm over Barba’s shoulders, sank a hand low on his back, and positioned himself for a taste of the same. Barba was less demonstrative, never one to throw himself at a moving target. His efforts were more artful; he’d sink against Carisi’s side when they stopped to take in the view of the ships gathered at the U.S. Coast Guard Base along the North End. He’d turn into him when he’d had enough of some picturesque view or another, and pretend that Carisi was a constant nuisance, always in the way. 

They broke for lunch in the historic Beacon Hill neighborhood, where they paced along its rolling brick sidewalks, passing grand rowhouses in search of the odd cafe among its ranks. Their gazes were drawn to the licks of color spotting doors, shutters, and plant life streaming upside every building’s front. The sweet smell of the Boston Public Gardens found them well on a shaded patio corner, and though Carisi peppered Barba with questions about his memories of the city, he didn’t prattle on much, himself. 

He was quietly charged with the sole satisfaction of _being._

Legs stretched out into the sun, head tipped back for a taste of the same, Carisi caught himself wondering what was so great about New York City. What kept him there, amidst the tight cityscape and visionless sky when places like Boston existed?

He smiled across the small table, where everything from their iced teas to Barba’s crab cakes and Carisi’s burger were thrown under shades of pink from the overhead awning, and thought maybe his present company had something to do with it.

Barba’s shirtsleeves had lost a few inches as he rolled them to his elbows. The sun met his skin generously, feeding it a kind of warmth New York never saw. The city would swelter and weaken under the heat, then sink like a swamp. Boston took the heat and tempered it with surrounding waterways and ample shade. Barba’s sunglasses were hanging below his throat again, just on the willpower of a button. Although Carisi still thought they were handsome, he saw the strength of Barba’s brow, the cut of his nose, and imagined his eyes were afforded natural cover. His eyes were deep-set, hooded in a way that was in turns intellectual, damning, and dangerous. He dealt in two in service of the remaining third. 

Carisi liked to think he hadn’t yet seen every available combination. Hoping not to miss even one, he found himself staring, and readily gave himself away.

Barba frowned at the display. “What,” he asked shortly.

“What, what?”

“You’re staring.”

Carisi shrugged. “You look happy.”

Eyes narrowed and still not convinced of any reason to stare, Barba quipped, “I should be. This is the first thing we’ve done where you haven’t demanded photographic evidence.” 

“Oh, no, I took plenty of pictures of you eating,” Carisi grinned unabashedly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What’s the point of,” Barba grimaced at the ever-present phone in Carisi’s hand. He didn’t like the implication of putting a name on it. Keepsakes? It sounded too much like a thing one simply amassed in time, and found themselves surrounded with when their life began to slow and draw to a close. 

“I dunno. I like pictures.” 

Carisi had only just convinced himself not to bring along his magnificent new Canon camera, with the cushioned neck strap and lens kit the size of a tackle box. It was a beautiful piece of equipment, but he already had some inkling Barba wouldn’t take kindly to its presence.

He’d seen Barba’s jaw tighten when Carisi was a little too loose with his cell phone, sliding it across a table when the gesture ought to have been made by hand.

And Carisi didn’t have to remind himself of the incident with his sidearm. It was the first and last of its kind, and had lasted all of five seconds. 

He’d visited Barba at the man’s temporary apartment, a modest six storey walk up in the Bronx that had previously belonged to his grandmother. He’d not done a thing to change the place--and wouldn’t, as Carisi saw for himself for five months as Barba lived out of a duffle bag, two boxes, and his entire wardrobe hung on three portable IKEA clothes racks. Even before Carisi had fully stepped inside, Barba had stopped him with a look as close to distrust as Carisi ever hoped to see again.

Barba did not explicitly address Carisi’s sidearm, and because both knew of no other reason that should delay--rather than hasten--Carisi’s return to the fold, the matter was understood. Carisi had even come to believe that, well ahead of desire or heartache, this question of trust was best understood between them. It was a given. 

Barba had glanced to a kitchen drawer and back, then said simply: _“You put that in there, or you don’t come in.”_

Carisi turned his phone over in his hands. The pictures were precious to him, and for all Barba’s posturing to the contrary, Carisi thought he was glad for them, too. 

“Memories can let you down sometimes,” Carisi said. “And I don’t just mean down the line, like, when dementia loosens your screws and you can’t remember _when_ or _where_ you last took a shit.”

Barba raised his eyebrows at that, parted his lips for an inquiry-- _Is this another Easter Sunday with the Carisis?_ \--but Carisi was faster. He continued, earnest and ready in a way that spoke to his penchant for bridging the gap between bodies with words, if not necessarily displaying any inherent agility for the task. 

“It’s real easy to forget you can be happy, you know? Even a day after the fact. You could think you hadn’t smiled for a decade.”

The amusement written on Barba’s face fell away. Words intended to chase after the initial comment scattered. 

“That’s a recent discovery for you,” he said, his voice slow with realization.

“With this job, yeah.”

Barba prodded at the crumbling remains of his meal with his fork. 

“Have you given any more thought to a career in law?” he asked, careful to keep his tone level. That he could pass for dismissive signaled his success. “I remember you didn’t want to make any immediate moves, but--that was months ago.”

“I have thought about it,” Carisi admitted. He found himself turning towards the notion with more frequency each passing day. It warmed him to think of a life driven towards an intellectual pursuit. Commanding reason and spinning theory in a courtroom would be a distant cry from his days hitting the streets of New York, chasing down countless leads, most of them no good. He imagined if the chase was taken out of his hands, would he be fiercer still on the takedown? He proudly liked to think so.

He could see, too, a life more level with Barba’s. Their work and hours could be compatible, their lives more focused. Carisi imagined sharing so much more than a bed.

But it was more fantasy than prospective reality, and to languish in it did him little good. He had taken an oath to protect and serve in his capacity as a member of the NYPD, and wasn't yet ready to break it. He admitted this to Barba, saying, “I’m glad I stayed. SVU is what I should be doing right now, and--hell. I’m kinda getting good at it. For whatever that’s worth.”

 _To the victims? It’s worth a great deal._

Barba thought as much, and knew he ought to have said it, to validate Carisi's difficult choice for him, but couldn’t. He felt a little bitter about the brush-off. In retaliation, he stole a fry off Carisi’s plate and felt marginally better about it, uselessly cheered in that way only petty theft could inspire.

“I like learning from you, though. It’s… invaluable.” 

Barba realized he was playing witness to something still somewhat removed from their relationship: Carisi’s legal education, such as it was, had been informed by Barba’s workhorse mentality, his silver tongue, and hungry mind. There were elements of awe built into their very company--it was the very foundation on which they first came to know one another. If Carisi hadn't been wowed, he would have chosen a new idol. 

Sometimes this intellectual devotion touched Barba at a strange angle and he felt burned by its glow. He felt like a cheat, swindling affection from a hapless victim.

Carisi continued, oblivious, “I think if ever I do make the move, I’ll be in good shape.”

“You’ve got quite the set-up here,” Barba mused, lips curling as he paused to sip from his drink. The ice rattled and sank in the glass, heavy under its own weight as well as glittering discs of orange and lemon. He joked to hide his genuine concern: “Semi-regular sex and a well-rounded education.”

“Tell me about it,” Carisi said, and unsettled his gaze to take more of Barba in: the spread of skin at his throat where his shirt gaped open, the easy line of his shoulders, the strength of one hand resting on the tabletop. He watched Barba frown at him for staring again. 

“ _And,_ ” Carisi continued, piling on his good fortune, “You look good in, like, _most_ of these pictures.”

Barba raised his glass. “A banner day for you.” 

The look on Carisi’s face was built on a smile but carried far more weight, and Barba was served some crinkle-eyed concern. “You’re having fun, too, right?”

It wasn't fair that such simple-minded goodness could so easily put Barba's heart in a vice. He surrendered to it, gave himself over to this bizarre strain of kindly fascism. Though, Barba mused, Carisi had the face for it. 

Barba felt his own expression soften even against the glare of the sun. It was as if he could hear himself smiling, the machinations of the gesture echoing inside his own head. He loathed that nothing--not even joy--felt natural to him anymore. He took ample care to mask his malfunctions from Carisi, who didn't need to know that Barba thought deeply about smiling before he could summon the act. 

“This is very relaxing, yes.”

“But not fun, though? I’m fixing that.”

Carisi set upon his phone with a new intensity. His thumbs whizzed over the screen, stirring up some devious plot. 

“What’s that, then?”

“A surprise.”

Barba rolled his eyes. “Is it baseball?”

“It’s a surprise,” Carisi insisted, but his bitten lip gave him away entirely.

“It’s baseball,” Barba said, and sipped his tea.

“Still a surprise.”

“You refusing to confirm for me what I already know doesn’t make it a surprise.”

Carisi waved a hand like a mystic attempting to pacify his target. “It could literally be anything.”

Barba wasn't fooled, but dropped the distinction, anyway. He supposed he wasn't spellbound, only accepting, and wasn't that the trick? 

“Fine. It’s just as well that it’s baseball. I’ve never been.” Barba caught the horrified look on Carisi’s face, then briefly pulled one of his own to match. “You’d think I'd just confessed to a crime.”

“Kind of, _yeah,_ ” Carisi agreed. With both index fingers, he gingerly pushed his plate away, as if the thought that curled into his gut had swiftly killed his appetite. “ _Personally,_ it disturbs me to my core. Fenway is an institution and you were, what, ten minutes away from it for three years?” 

“I was a touch preoccupied.”

An Ivy League education, Carisi thought, wasn’t an adequate excuse. “You live and work in New York City, so don’t tell me you don’t stop now and again, look up, and find the Statue of Liberty.” 

Barba set his jaw, working the odd configurations of what--precisely--Carisi was drawing together. “You’re comparing a beacon of hope and promise to--”

“To a statue, yeah, I am.” Carisi smiled broadly, triumphant. 

Barba brought a hand to smooth over his face, joined it with the other. He felt it necessary to omit himself from even the _air_ into which Carisi expressed this thought. “You are in such… profound… error.”

The plates and silverware littering the table shifted, clattered against one another like a windchime touched by the first gasp of morning, and Barba felt the warmth of a hand on his own. Teasingly, Carisi pried Barba’s fingers apart, making a little window through which a tired-eyed Barba had to see him. 

And Carisi was a vision. 

Bright, brash, bursting with energy. He was hardly his own keeper; words and movements seemed to clamor out of him, as if he was constantly policing their behavior but failing miserably. 

Barba realized if anything, his unchecked antics were the worst of him. He was so deeply humane in every respect that the worst he could be was too generous of himself with others. It sent a tremor through Barba so lifelike that he glanced around, thinking strangers in the cafe must have felt the disturbance, too. 

This was, he realized, what his abuelita had meant when she told her daughter, Barba's mother, by then still trying to distance herself from his father, that she deserved a _Good Man._

No further words of explanation were necessary; it was all in the tone. It was hopeful, something not unfrequented by his abuelita, but rare in its display towards his mother. Lucia was something entirely different from her mother, hard-nosed and iron-willed, where abuelita had her heart in her hands and her head in the clouds. Abuelita respected their differences.

 _Abuelita,_ Barba thought helplessly, and imagined himself young, pointing at Carisi like as if that would bring further understanding. _Look._

“It’s going to change your mind,” Carisi was saying while Barba stared and tried to place him. “Fenway Park--I promise you. _I promise you._ You’re gonna love it.”

“I believe you,” Barba said, and hoped he had managed a smile. 

-

“These seats are absurd.”

“These seats are _the best._ ” Carisi opened his arms to all of Fenway Park. “We’re on the Green Monster!”

“So the four-year-old behind me keeps screaming.” 

Within the whole of the stadium, they were situated along the very edge, filling seats that directly overlooked the checkered green outfield. They were sat on tall, uncomfortable stools, though in just a few vertical rows, there was little concern of feeling crowded. Other benefits included a bartop space to rest their drinks and--according to Carisi--one unbeatable view. Barba was of a mind to argue that they could only see the game from its back end, but he realized that Carisi meant a view of the stadium, the fans, and the cloudless blue sky that touched down to kiss the pale, confused green of the place. 

Even Barba had to admit it was one hell of a sight. Thousands of people cheered their beloved Red Sox, stood for their National Anthem, and sat in deference to their game. It was the performance of a ritual, a display of social life that was well-learned and well-loved. Even a lapsed Catholic such as Barba could appreciate the spectacle. It tightened something old and forgotten in his chest, which Barba immediately deemed inappropriate and embarrassing.

He wrinkled his nose as if the feeling itself had a strong odor. Barba imagined less sweat and grass, more wine and dust.

“Loosen up,” Carisi grinned at him. “Drink your beer.”

He already had his phone out, camera at the ready.

Barba took one sip--it was memorialized, he was certain--before asking, “Am I going to have to look at that thing all night?”

“Actually smile for a couple and I’ll let it go.” 

Barba would do no such thing. “What are you going to do with those?”

“Nothing,” Carisi answered, maybe too quickly. He pocketed the phone. “They're just for me.” Then, in a rush, he admitted to ulterior motives: “And maybe if things change. Like if we’re ever not in the closet anymore. My Facebook feed is dying over here.”

“Relax your vocal chords and project--I don't think they heard you at third base,” Barba said, sarcasm heavy on his tongue. The subsequent rolling of his eyes was playful, though, and the smirk twisting his lips was teasing. 

Carisi’s halfhearted smile in return was likewise at odds with itself. 

“I’m not in the business of policing your Facebook, Carisi. Post whatever you want.”

There was a hit lobbed high into outfield, outrageously missed by the visiting team. It caused a flurry of commotion on the field and--Barba was fairly sure--a sufficient run. He glanced at Carisi to be sure, but the man wasn’t up on his feet with the rest of the crowd, applauding and spilling his beer. 

He was sat, his gaze lost somewhere in what had been the back of Barba’s head.

“All due respect, that’s bullshit, Counselor. You redacted our lunch receipt.”

His voice was tight, firm. Slipping out of its clutches was his Staten Island fare, that loose accent flung around like a dead cat. Barba sighed, inched his aviators downward so that he could look Carisi in the eye when he said, “I just want you to think ahead. If people have questions, how comfortable are you answering them in black and white?” 

Carisi shot back, “How comfortable are you if I am?”

It sounded to both their ears like a threat. Carisi visibly sank back from it, ashamed. 

Barba let it slide, saying coolly, “I’m sure I can manage.”

He pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose and stared down at the game.

Beside him, Carisi tapped tentatively on his phone, back and forth, before ultimately deleting the content. Then he leaned forward on folded arms, tipping out towards the game as if greatly interested. Even for not looking, Barba could feel his presence and knew otherwise. 

“I think about it all the time,” Carisi said. As hushed and low as he rendered his voice, it hardly seemed reasonable that he wanted anyone else--Barba included--to hear him. He did this deliberately--Barba could hear him or not, it was his choice. “You just want me to come around to your conclusion, but I can’t. I don’t want to… be on the margins. I don’t want my friends and family only to know what they can guess of me.” 

He’d worked to find that point--Barba could tell as much. It was dug-out from under bed sheets and rainy days and shared meals. Everything that was certain between the two of them, but obscured in its telling to others. 

Carisi continued, “And you _know that._ You know I won’t go any further without you on board.”

Under the waning light of a beautiful Friday, the kind of day built for late lunches and baseball games, Barba felt humiliated. Not by Carisi, so much, but by his own weak diversion tactics. And his first thought wasn’t that he could have done better in the realm of subterfuge, but that he was foolish to have tried at all. 

He cleared his throat, said, “So this is baseball.”

“Yeah,” Carisi sighed, leaning back into his seat.

Barba took a steady breath. “I don’t entirely get it,” he admitted, and waited for Carisi to catch his meaning. “It’s only the first inning.”

A small smile squirreled around Carisi’s face as he worked to subdue it. 

“Yeah, but the Sox are winning,” he said. “And nobody goes home feeling like an idiot for cheering on the game even if we lose.”

 _Oh, Lord,_ Barba thought, and drained his beer, wishing all the while it was scotch. 

“I can’t believe I tried to get away with a _sports metaphor_ and you _showed me up._ ”

Carisi bumped him with an elbow. “Is that what you were trying to do? Really?”

“Stop.”

“I had no idea. Come on, try again.”

“Carisi.”

“Maybe choose a different sport. I hear they _waffle_ in hockey.”

Barba shook his head and served Carisi a look that promised retribution. He supposed he ought to be more cautious; he’d escaped his own reckoning, though it was unknown how long Carisi would let him wander.

And wasn’t _that_ a hell of a thing to find himself concerned with?

Barba frowned well into the second inning, wondering what--if anything--signaled it. He wanted to make sense of what he was staring at, but had little in which to ground the play. Had there been sufficient outs? There were more than three pitches thrown. The crowd had _ooed_ at each.

“Oh, hey--got you something,” Carisi said, interrupting Barba’s ponderings. 

From a plastic bag at his feet, Carisi retrieved a hat. He’d come away with it when he’d abandoned Barba in line, only to cross into a shop on Yawkey Way and pick up a souvenir for his father. It was a simple navy blue cap bearing a stylized “B.” Carisi was wearing an identical one, though his was soft and worn around the edges, a prize from years past that he dusted off for just this occasion. 

“And now we match,” Barba said, his tone slow and deliberate, as if there was something to suss out there, some hidden ploy Carisi would have to cop to. 

“Sure,” Carisi said, words spilling out of a sideways grin. “We match. You, me, and about 37,000 other people.”

He wasn’t wrong. Glancing to his left, Barba saw no fewer than six identical hats in their row alone. Barba pursed his lips, irrationally dismayed that the gesture had been as simple and pure as Carisi made it sound. He turned the cap over in his hands just once before putting it on. 

“I’m not a hat person,” he said, partly because he wasn’t, but mostly because he couldn’t see how it looked. He didn’t often resort to preemptively tempering expectations of himself. His work spoke for itself, but there was no accounting for the shape of one’s head and its favorability towards hats. 

“Well,” Carisi said, and straightened the cap so that the bill wasn't drawn so low over Barba's face, “That’s a damn shame for hats everywhere.”

Barba swatted his hand away, then tugged the bill low so that he could sulk in peace and in shade. “Your tone is, to say the least, disconcerting.” He adjusted the hat again, then glanced to his right and saw that Carisi was still favoring him with a small smile. “I feel like I need another beer to complete this fetching ensemble.”

Carisi’s smile broke into a wide, generous grin. He clapped Barba on the shoulder as he passed, climbed up their seating section and disappeared towards the nearest concession stand. 

In Carisi’s absence, and because didn’t feel particularly drawn to the game, Barba set upon his phone, checking emails and texts.

His last had been from Benson, a thank-you for some help he’d provided their substitute ADA. The poor guy didn't have encyclopedic knowledge of judges and their respective biases, yet. Pointing him in the direction of a judge who signed off on warrants like he was a starlet being asked for his autograph was hardly some great effort, and Barba was never one to let an opportunity to show off pass him by.

Especially an opportunity he could cover in the guise of being helpful. Benson knew that about him, as her exact words had been, _[Spare a minute of your vacation to show up your temporary replacement?]_ to which Barba had responded, _[Gladly]._

_[Having fun?]_

It was Benson again, texting back after nearly six hours absence. He'd done her favor, she'd thanked him, and that was it. She hadn't asked after Barba or Carisi, or inserted herself in any way into their private lives.

Barba considered the hour--eight in the evening on a Friday--and supposed she was at home, willing Noah to sleep, the credits to some children's movie running on her television for the nth time. Maybe he'd gone down easy and she was nursing a glass of wine, thumbing through some bestseller she couldn't quite get into, because fictional drama had long since lost its appeal. 

She could probably due with a little gossip, Barba thought, and cut her some slack. 

When Carisi returned, Barba traded his phone for the beer. 

”Here, do your thing. Wow me.” 

He allowed Carisi to snap a selfie of the two of them, matching hats and all. There was Barba in his sunglasses, weak beer in hand, the whole of Fenway Park spilling out behind him. And ahead of him, leaned back against his front and shoulder, comfortably close, was Carisi.

“Keep it PG,” Barba added wryly. “This is going to your boss.”

In perhaps a damning move that showed his hand as still feeling very much like a minor among his older, more experienced colleagues, Carisi took that note and followed through by sliding his own beer out of frame. 

Carisi smiled, Barba tried not to look overly bored or too smug, and the moment cemented itself with the practiced touch of a thumb.

Barba hardly glanced at the picture--it was cooler that way--but regretted sending it the second the image hovered in the air, binged off satellites, and landed in Benson's inbox. 

_What the fuck was that?_

Barba could have said as much aloud, let it get caught up in the commentary around them as the Red Sox seemed to refuse--on principle--to make a substantial play. 

Flirtatious selfies were not in his repertoire. Much less _sharing them_ with a third party. 

Rafael Barba did not make a fool of himself willingly.

He glanced sideways at Carisi, who was watching the game and cheering on in hopes of a hit. 

_Not without help,_ it seemed. 

It was altogether too sweet, too silly, and it felt nothing like him. Like a cheap suit, this earnestness didn’t _fit._ It was puckered at the sides, too shiny, and cut him into unequal parts.

Barba sucked down a third of his beer, then thumbed through his phone, accessed the photo gallery, and looked at the picture. He stared intently, scrutinizing it as if there was anything he could still change or undo. The thought alone turned the overpriced swill in his belly corrosive, a deadly combination with the lightness he’d felt only moments ago, _asking for this,_ and inviting Carisi to be a central part. The idea had struck him and he didn’t think to think better of it. 

It was, admittedly, a fine picture. Hardly the camp vision that had blossomed in his mind. Carisi’s smile was overlarge and stupid, but that was normal. Barba’s own was sly, his shoulders sloped and relaxed. He stared harder, trying to find what it was he should be concerned with. 

_It’s fine,_ he realized, though the corresponding feeling of relief was yet to find him. Dread continued to roil in his gut and he took a sip of bottled water--itself, more expensive than the beer--to settle his nerves. He was sick for feeling so anxious, the consequence fast overlapping the cause. 

He wished he didn't feel a lot of ways.

Benson's reply interrupted his thoughts. A simple and artfully slick _[Go Sox]._

Barba sank in his seat. Even as a trusted friend, Barba never felt entirely at liberty to discuss Carisi with Benson. With her position as Carisi’s superior, it was inherently risque. He liked to think Benson trusted his judgment enough to allow this self-mandated discretion, and for Barba, that thought was enough. He hadn’t actually breached the subject since that first time, and summarily a mention or two thereafter. 

He worried about saying something and exposing himself. She would see all his doubts and manipulations, and Barba knew if she cared for her detective at all, she’d advise Carisi to cut his losses. It would be a kinder thing when _she_ did it, Barba thought. 

Wanting to chase the image off the screen, Barba typed a second message--another inquiry after Benson’s case, but she dismissed his interest. The matter was cut-and-dry, a good case for Barba’s substitute to pick up and run with.

He pocketed his phone and studied the game instead. The thought found him, wriggled out from the dark depths of his past, that any good Cubano should know some of the rules, and whatever sliver of history belonged to him and his people. His childhood friend Eddie had always liked baseball, could rattle off stats and concern himself with trades. But there was hardly enough room for a basketball court in their neighborhood, let alone a baseball diamond. Eddie liked to excuse it with bravado; there wasn’t space enough between two buildings that he couldn’t hit through, and somehow the City’s developers knew that, and threw up more skyscrapers to muddy his path. 

Barba had never given much thought to why Eddie chose to believe that fantasy, when the truth was so simple. And Barba remembered losing his temper at Eddie’s brightness and cheer once and saying meanly, _”Idiota. We’re poor.”_

To which Alex Muñoz, all of ten years old, had looked at him as if physically accosted by Barba’s words. He’d said with a conviction that would earn the trust of the Bronx and win him votes decades from then, _“So?”_

Barba looked out over Fenway Park and heard Alex’s voice in his head: _Why can’t we have all this?_

Barba worried maybe his thoughts were making themselves apparent in his features, setting themselves into his brow and tightening his chin, because he felt a warm hand on his shoulder--Carisi--and turned to face it, expecting that ever-present look of concern. 

And again, Barba was glad to have been mistaken. Carisi had his phone to his ear and was motioning to Barba that he had to take the call.

Carisi was quick to step away in search of a quiet place on the outskirts of the stadium seating. Barba, not particularly drawn into the tedium of the game, took his beer in hand and followed soon after. He was curious as to who would be calling. Barba even wondered if he’d been wrong, and Carisi _had_ posted something to social media, and was now fielding the onslaught of questions. 

Barba found Carisi finishing a short conversation against an edge of railed walkway behind the stands. It stood over a bizarrely placed patch of green--an actual farm, Barba realized, as he saw cabbages and great heaps of kale growing fat and bright in neat rows.

“My mom,” Carisi explained, pocketing his phone.

Barba moved to rest beside him, his back against the railing, a breeze blowing by. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Carisi said, and the smile tugging at his lips was genuine, if shy. Barba realized with a twist of his gut that Carisi’s mother must know about them to some extent. He’d never explicitly said. “She just worries about me.”

Barba planted a smirk on his face. “Being out of the City for one weekend?”

A cheer carried through the stadium, and Carisi let it play out before answering. 

“She probably has reason to be,” he admitted. “When I was a kid, I went to camp upstate one summer and called her crying every day because I thought the dog missed me.”

“Have you done much traveling since?” Barba asked, pointedly not knocking summer camp. He spent his early summers pounding the pavement in his neighborhood. Summer camp had been worlds away.

“Austin. Cleveland. Milwaukee.” 

“The big three,” Barba grinned.

Carisi rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He wasn’t unaware of his lackluster travelogue, but even then--he lived in New York. He had the average American beat by a mile just leaving his apartment every day. He bumped his shoulder to Barba’s, said, “I bet you’ve been all over.”

Barba shook his head. He wouldn’t knock Aspen or Vienna--never Vienna--but those were the product of company retreats or--worse--the summer homes of his peers and colleagues. There was Spain, once, in a whirlwind spring break orchestrated by his wealthier peers at Harvard. Barba could hardly remember the place--he felt so lost even just getting there. He’d played translator, to a degree. 

He said as much to Carisi and concluded, “Showing up at someone’s doorstep, seeing their baby pictures on the walls amidst a collection of dignitaries foreign and domestic…” 

He trailed off, consumed by the thought but absent the words to articulate it. Barba would never forget visiting Spain, arriving early one evening at the summer home belonging to a family of a friend, one of the first he’d made at Harvard. The sight awaiting him in the beachside property was obscene: Henry Kissinger sat with his friend’s parents, the man’s rattle of a laugh scattering like bones over the dinner table. Until the day he died, Barba would remember that Nixon’s National Security Advisor--a man with an astounding legacy of human rights violations and potential war crimes--hadn’t wiped the biscotti crumbs from his hand before shaking Barba’s.

Barba remembered not sleeping that night, though the guest room was luxurious, the bed outfitted with goose down pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets. When there was just enough light to see by, he’d gone into the den and stared at the photos on the walls. They were faces out of history, and even those he could not place, Barba knew were important. Kingmakers, all. There was something performative about the collection, yes, but in the end they’d all arrived as company. 

It unnerved Barba and made him realize how much catching up he had to do. 

He turned his back on the memory and returned to the present. There, he found Carisi waiting for him.

“It never felt like travel. It always felt like work.”

He shook his head after speaking, not the least bit impressed with himself. Work or not, they were still jaunts to exotic, clandestine destinations on someone else’s dime. 

Carisi smiled in sympathy all the same. He’d had a blast in Milwaukee, and couldn’t summon a sorry thought about either Austin or Cleveland. 

Barba scratched at the stubble on his face, and when he returned his hand to the railing, let it rest half-atop Carisi’s in a gesture that by no means went unnoticed. Carisi looked like he had something to be proud of in an act that was solely Barba’s. 

Though, Barba supposed, maybe he did. 

“Go back to the game?”

“Nah,” Carisi shrugged. He wanted the moment to last a little longer, to stand under the orange-blue of the sky as it tipped towards evening with Barba at his side, beer in both their bellies, a baseball game carrying on without a lick of deference to their presence.

It was _all_ that he wanted, and in the moment he realized that, Carisi succumbed to that ever-present fear that _Barba_ wasn’t enjoying himself, that _Barba_ was annoyed, and it was Carisi’s own fault. 

“There's an art museum somewhere near here. Open til 10pm, even.”

The suggestion made Barba smile if only for its absurd truth: he knew the MFA well, had visited it often. Fenway Park was only ever just out of reach and he’d never made the short walk towards its gates. 

“It's fine. I'm enjoying the game.” Barba frowned at his own saying so, and lifted his plastic cup in explanation. “Well. I'm enjoying the beer.”

-

They didn’t stay for the whole game. Carisi made it clear that was never his plan. 

“I want you to have fun,” he’d said as they cut out around the fourth inning. “To _enjoy_ a baseball game. Staying for all of one? That’s like--forget putting the cart before the horse. Might as well shoot the horse dead.”

They took the subway back, exiting at a stop north of their hotel. It was just as well; it was late, but the night was pleasantly cool and ideal for walking around the harbor. 

They walked close, side-by-side, as if drawn into one another. It was easier, in the dark. Easier in Boston, too, where their steps allowed for leisure, not a trudge. 

People milled about--young couples and old, a group of teens getting off their shifts at the nearby aquarium. Although Boston lacked the institutional set up of a bodega economy, Barba managed to find a coffee, which appealed to him even at the growing hour. Carisi opted for an ice cream.

They sat on a stone outcropping along the Long Warf, their feet dangling high above the calm waters hugging the city. Both were quiet, simultaneously drawn to reflecting on the fact that they’d spent more time together now than, perhaps, since their first tentative steps towards intimacy. 

By that measure alone, it had been a long day. 

Then, into the quiet, Carisi opened his mouth, and Barba imagined the moment being overtaken by far too many words, spoken at a pace better served to an Olympic athlete. Barba had come neither to dread or relish these moments; they were a natural extension of Carisi, his own nerves and insecurities, despite his refusal to see them. 

Barba had already made the mistake of saying, _Just be quiet,_ when he truly meant, _Just be with me._

Carisi surprised him, saying only, “Thanks for doing this. I'm glad we’re here.”

Barba blinked, waited a beat for more and when none came, replied, “You don't need to thank me.”

“I do, though?” Carisi said, and wrinkled his nose in thought. “Sometimes it feels like we’re both just pretending, you know? Out of some… weird sense of pride. ‘Cause otherwise, what we did, it wasn’t so good.” 

Barba drew in a slow, silent breath. _We,_ he’d said, but Barba heard otherwise. As if Carisi was equally at fault. As if Barba hadn’t baited him, worn desperation and convenience like cologne at his throat.

“Stuff like this, though.” Carisi looked out into the harbor, where ships swayed atop the glittering black waters, and the breeze that carried in the Atlantic wasn’t lost amidst buildings and thoroughfares. It pressed their shirts against their skin and rifled through their hair, leaving only a faint smell of salt. The whole of Boston seemed to open up and breathe for them. 

And Carisi fed from it, drawing in a short, gleeful breath like couldn’t hold it in long enough to put off saying those words that had been singing through him all day: “You want me here.”

Shy, pleased, astounded. Carisi was layers of these, his heart beat them as a pattern, a morse code imprinting on every cell in his body. 

Barba breached the meticulously kept space between them, and thought for one delirious moment he smelled New York there. It was heat and stink with just a hint of cologne, something held just beyond arm's reach. He turned, leaned out towards the water and curled back in, kissing Carisi. On his lips, Barba tasted the slick sweetness of ice cream. His own coffee breath tempered it, grounded the exchange. Carisi opened up for him, no longer shy, no longer astounded. Only pleased.

 _Learned behavior,_ Barba thought to the contrary. _Reflex._

One seemed more generous than the other. 

-

They returned to their hotel, to bed, where they pressed into and gave to one another more than words could allow. There had been plenty to start, every version of _tell me when_ and _just say stop_ and _I won’t--_ hurt you, though Barba had never quite said so.

They needed them less and less. 

There were none splitting Carisi’s pinkened lips, gliding past their slickened slopes. At least, none intelligible. Barba thought that strange wave of silence was immaculate.

Carisi untied a knot at the base of Barba’s skull using just his mouth, orchestrating the release from some ways away.

A real skill, Barba thought. 

Barba met his face with a pillow, worried that he still had little command over his expressions, and that he’d look impassive when Carisi gazed at him with sweeping adoration. Barba couldn’t help but to peek an eye open in search for that look--it was a natural rush, being seen naked and appreciated for it. The exposure was its own reward, but then Carisi afforded such attention to his chest and limbs, even his sinking cock after their mutual efforts had been spilled. 

Their first words afterwards were “please” and “thank you,” but not in that order. 

Barba laughed into the pillow when Carisi swatted his ass on his way to the shower.

-

That night, Barba did not sleep well, and ultimately awoke just after three, his face clammy with sweat. He left the bed like he thought it a crime scene. In his own apartment, he could do this in the dark, so familiar had the motions become. Here, he bumped his knee into a tabletop, overshot the bathroom door. He shut it on himself and flooded the space with blistering fluorescent light. Barba washed his face in the bathroom, then took a piss in an attempt to cover his tracks. 

His face. He caught it at odd angles and didn’t recognize himself. Full-on, he’d practiced. There were expressions he gave to others, a patented collection, ever growing as he forged new copies based on those he’d lost: ease, relaxation, certainty. What he couldn’t recreate, he hid.

There was a $200 tub of face cream no larger than an espresso cup in his shaving kit, sold to him on the claim that it could do something to mask the circles under his eyes, which held dark and steadfast, sure as little soldiers, two fixed sentries. He bought it with cash, paid for it in vanity. 

Returning to bed, his first instinct was to lie to himself--it was the mattress, the angle of the moonlight lilting into the room, the coffee he’d had--maybe the milk was off? But he couldn’t find cause to lie to Carisi, who was sat up in bed, cold for Barba’s absence, his concerned expression lost to the dark of the room. 

Barba crept back under the sheets as though there was still a secret to keep. Carisi sank down to meet him, and immediately rested his head on Barba’s chest. It was a comfortable, familiar weight. 

Carisi didn’t utter a word. He waited. This silence, Barba thought, was different than before.

“They aren’t even nightmares anymore,” Barba said, rushed and all at once, like it had been demanded of him. His voice in the dark felt unattached, a spirit appearing out of thin air. It afforded Barba a sense of deniability: the admission, the ache, the exhaustion--none of it was his. “Just… thoughts, no more or less horrific than as I have them consciously.”

“You think about what happened a lot?” Carisi’s voice sounded different when removed from the rest of him, too. No less caring or warm, but there was an edge to it, now. Maybe there always was--a bit of his unfinished self, something obscured by his kind features.

“You can blame my therapist for that.”

“What do you think about?”

Barba did not respond right away. Truthfully, he didn’t want to admit this much aloud. It was embarrassing--if not outright shameful--that he’d become entirely preoccupied by his own pain, that it continued to confound him, and that he used work as a diversion. He was restless, now, because the thoughts were always there, and he had no more distractions. 

“How easy it was,” he said, an ugly admission if only, he thought, because it reflected poorly on him. “Even before the whole entering my home and staging my suicide _thing,_ I was very easily cowed into living a different life than the one I’d led.”

Carisi was struck dumb by the reasoning and was quick to argue to the contrary: “You went to work, you won cases--”

“--And then I went home, and padlocked my door, and didn’t sleep,” Barba pointed out, and was angry because his fears and failures were not transient, they didn’t come and go. They persisted, and he’d succumbed. “I called _you._ ”

In bed with the evidence, Barba realized. He’d sunk his own case. 

He wet his lips. “I did that unfairly.”

Carisi was quiet. His options as to how to respond were limited. Barba wouldn’t hear kindness, he’d question it. 

So Carisi wasn’t kind. He invested instead in the corporeal, and set himself upon Barba’s supine body. He touched his lips to the soft skin of Barba’s chest, teased a nipple and caressed a collarbone on his way to Barba’s slackened mouth. They kissed, Carisi drawing from Barba’s anxiety like a well to feed the intensity of each passing second. Another sheen of sweat began to form between their bodies. 

Carisi moved against him as though he was leading a charge, his moans like a call to arms. Barba shuddered when Carisi stirred in him a feeling of ache and desire that would not be met again that night.

And unbeknownst to Carisi, it was just as well: for in that moment, Barba’s mind was rendered blank. It was a rarer gift than a loose libido, and one Barba would gladly accept.

“All things considered, it worked out okay.” 

“Yes, well,” Barba’s reprieve was short-lived, as he stared into the emptiness of the hotel room and saw down a gun barrel for his trouble. He wasn’t startled; the thing found him often enough. He closed his eyes, but the vision followed. “You were sleeping just fine, weren’t you?”

Like Carisi, he couldn’t banish his intrusive thoughts with a harsh word. They only sank their respective grips into him tighter for the offense, though it was some consolation that Carisi’s efforts held longer, were more steadfast than his fears.

Carisi sat up again, rearranged himself so that his body was curled towards--and partially under--Barba’s. He’d decided that Barba would simply have to accept kindness.

He was, in effect, holding Barba. Barba, who wanted to be petty and refuse this behavior, to object to the very idea that he needed any such coddling, was silent. He stewed, and Carisi held him, and in the morning neither could quite remember when they’d fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * That George Clooney line belongs to slashmyheartandhopetoporn, who overheard it at a doctor’s office, and magnanimously shared it with me in real time. She’s changing lives, that one.
> 
> No clues as to what the next chapter will be--I haven’t written it yet.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning crept into the room by degrees, first shifting through the blinds, then warming the grey curtains. Even the air seemed to breathe outwards in the room, waking, a conscious determination of light over dark.

But those were fanciful decrees, and everything Barba knew of mornings was hardwired inside him, and all of it boiled down to necessities: waking, dressing, and coffee.

Barba, having showered and dressed before Carisi even stirred from bed, wore dark green khakis and another white shirt, pristine and airy to complement the wearer and the heat. In his shoes, he’d swapped the previous day’s shoe laces for an acid yellow pair. Although less inventive with his casual wear, the latter detail was his one exception--he brought three different pairs of laces, each in an eye-searing shade of red, plum, and yellow. 

He smiled, thinking how his ties, suspenders, and socks had all once been an affectation, a tool with which to amplify his presence when he thought his words and performance went unseen. Now they had become a genuine part of him, if something of a compulsion. 

He felt the ball of a foot digging into his backside and thought perhaps he had an affinity for such things. 

The natural follow-up, then, was an unspoken, _Fuck. I'm such a cliché._

“You’re dressed already?” Carisi asked through a yawn. “I missed it?”

He liked to tease that Barba’s routine was a performance to which he had exclusive viewing rights. 

_(Is it?_ Barba would ask, drawing on his vest with a touch more flourish. _Do you?)_

Carisi wasn't much of a vision, himself: lost under a tangle of sheets and comforter, one pillow cinched at the middle, another drooping against the headboard. All that could be seen was a mass of dirty blonde hair swooping over the sheets as he hid himself from morning. Even the foot he used to prod at Barba was twisted up in the bed sheets. 

“I did a whole routine,” Barba hummed. “Triple salchow and everything. The bellhop called it a revelation.”

“Whoa, back up, I missed the bellhop?”

“He sends his fondest regards,” Barba said, and then softened. Carisi dug his head out from under the sheets and, though bleary-eyed, was smiling as if at total peace. Barba, even in a bright white shirt, felt like a column of blackest night, an unholy disturbance. Then he stood, a tree trunk uprooted and thrown by a hurricane into the soft greys and whites of their room. 

“Sorry,” he said, and couldn’t help but feel at fault for some wrong he couldn’t place. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

“Nah, I’m up.” Carisi threw off the sheets, but didn’t get much farther. “I’m up.” 

“It’s fine. Sleep. I’m going to get a paper from the lobby.”

“No, look, I got the news here. What do you want to know?” Carisi threw a gangly arm over towards the bedside table, collected his phone and breezed through the passcode, some kind of feat in his sleep-tinged state. “Ugh. This is all terrible. You don’t want to know that.” He smiled at Barba, and as if his good humor was not persuasive enough, he drank from another well: “Come back to bed. Get naked.”

Though appealing, it wasn’t his voice that did the heavy lifting. Raspy and underserved from sleep, it was as if all of Staten Island woke up to spit, curse, and greet the day. It wasn’t the warm prattle Barba was most familiar with; in Barba's opinion, Carisi’s voice was something the man chewed around in his mouth all day. It didn’t come from a deeper place, didn’t resonate like great voices do. 

Rather than a voice, it was from that place that Carisi’s gaze emerged, shining and steady. There was strength enough in it to set a suspect on edge and command a lover’s attention. Barba had seen both, albeit from different angles. As spectacularly set as any stained glass in a church, Carisi's eyes fell soft and rallied easily. There was no clearer representation of Carisi’s spirit than the stare measured out from under his brow, sometimes shyly, often intent, always searching, never lost.

When turned on another in favor, it was a thing of unbridled presence. 

Barba felt its glow like a personal sunrise, his alone on some curved horizon while the rest of the waking world sat patiently by, blinded by darkness. Barba was more touched than Carisi’s dirty little joke should mandate, and was weak for it.

He suffered this wave of affection, felt it curl around and spear his heart as surely as it blossomed over his face. Who could witness grace and go on, truly unaffected?

Barba might have fallen to Carisi’s suggestion--taken off his clothes, surrendered the day, given into the painstaking demands of his body--had there not been two voices competing for dominance in his mind, neither of them his.

 _Good men are hard to find,_ his Abuelita used to say. _Love is bloodsport,_ according to his mother. Barba hated to imagine sending this perfect being into the arena.

More to the point, he hated that Carisi surely saw himself for a willing participant.

“No, I need the paper,” Barba said, suddenly dry-mouthed. 

He left the room as though it was on fire. There was some response from Carisi that got caught, mangled in the door as Barba closed it swiftly behind him and took off at a quickened pace he wasn’t proud of. The need to distance himself followed Barba well into the lobby, breathing down his neck as he left the elevator, left the building, and walked two blocks until he found a convenience store. 

He bought the _Times_ and ibuprofen for a headache he didn’t have. It seemed a meager haul, but he asked for a plastic bag to put it in. 

_Look,_ he could say silently as he passed the doorman to return to the hotel, _I had a point to running out of here like I did. A point so valid I have encased it in a plastic sack._

When Barba returned to his and Carisi’s hotel room, the moment had passed. The bed was empty, the sheets askew, the pillow--Barba touched it tentatively. The pillow was still warm. 

Carisi had thrown back the curtains and blinds, and opened the sliding glass door to their balcony. The room was open, fed with light, and seemed a greater thing than the place Barba had stumbled through in the dark, feeling anxious and small. 

Plastic bag and needless purchases in hand, Barba still felt that way. 

-

The morning they decided to tour Harvard, Barba was uncharacteristically wary. 

“Did you bring pants?” he asked the moment Carisi left the shower, water and heat still clinging to his skin. “Wear them. Otherwise I’ll look like a teacher toting around a freshman on a field trip.”

Carisi grinned, pleased with himself for inspiring such senseless mania. “So, a departure from our regular thing.”

Barba turned to look over his shoulder at Carisi, and served him a bone-dry look. “I hope your trapper keeper and pencil case keep you warm at night.” 

“They do alright,” Carisi said, then toweled off and dressed while Barba waited out on the balcony, paper still folded and unread at his side. 

Barba had sat himself on the balcony patio furniture, stretched out to watch the boats along the harbor stutter, awaken, and open their sails. They bobbled along the glittering waterways, most securely docked, some drifting plaintively. His mind carried well over the sight. If crow’s nests were still a sailing feature--Barba guessed not--he imagined climbing into one, depositing his mind there, out on the water where it could be safe. 

Except from seagulls, he supposed. An inelegant end if ever there was one, but honest. 

He drew in his gaze like a fishing line and studied instead the soft curve of the balcony. It was a solid little half-dome outcropping, not so high that he couldn’t put his feet up if he was so inclined. That it curved inward, he thought, was a subconscious reminder to its visitors not to spill too far out. 

Barba thought how a design feature couldn’t very well hold against intent. He found himself imagining being pushed from this very place, high above the city. The water would feel like cement when he hit it. A graceless end to the swandive of a lifetime.

His body would come away badly bruised, his death the result of a brain hemorrhage, though he would sustain broken bones for his trouble. He’d be damaged further by whatever means used to retrieve him. Maybe he’d be struck by a boat propeller, or netting would slice through his skin like razorwire. 

_Who knows,_ he thought absently to himself. _Life is full of happy accidents._

“Hey.”

A hand curled around his shoulder and Barba nearly leapt out of his skin. Another came to rest over his heart, as if to steady him and regulate his breathing. Barba shoved both of them off and scrambled quickly to stand.

It was more than being startled. Being startled would be a jewel-encrusted _gift_ compared to his own clumsy display. 

He knew it. Carisi knew it.

Carisi, who looked a picture in a striped t-shirt and blue dockers in a generously slim cut, said nothing, perhaps at a loss for words, though it was likelier still that he knew better. An apology would only serve to make Barba feel at fault for his own frayed nerves, and though the desire to embrace Barba, to secure him in his arms and relate warmth and safety, bent him like a mother to a child’s cry, Carisi abstained. He’d shatter his own spine before he made a gesture of love and affirmation into an involuntary power play.

His stare was careful, his stance abiding. They watched one another. 

It was very nearly beyond Carisi’s strength, Barba realized under a wave of humiliation, not to hold his hands up, open, _empty,_ save for the promise of peace. He clung to that notion with his fingertips. 

Barba didn’t have the energy to lie, to mascarade some defense to suggest that wasn’t what he needed. He folded his arms across his chest. He sighed.

An apology wasn’t necessary from _him,_ either. Carisi let the moment stall, then slink away. 

In the commotion, Barba’s newspaper had spilled to the floor and fanned out pitiably. His tiny bottle of Advil similarly escaped the plastic bag, and when Carisi bent to collect both, Barba felt too ashamed to even help.

“If you’re not feeling well, we don’t have to do anything.” Like a meal, the offer was plated upon a friendly smile, the kind someone might use to gaze upon a cranky child to inspire compliance. “I’m serious. We could just hang out here.” The smile waned when Carisi considered maybe what would satisfy him wouldn’t satisfy Barba, and he made a swift addendum: “Or I could go out, see some sights. You could have the room to yourself for a while. Read your paper.”

 _God,_ Barba wanted that. He wanted self-imposed exile, solitude, and breakfast in bed. He wanted the day to disappear out from under him until such an hour that it would reappear and he might try again.

He wanted it, and Carisi was offering. It could be so simple. 

Barba summoned himself together, chastised what had been broken and rallied the parts that were left. He threw on a smile--easy--and made the first move. He sidled up to Carisi, a movement so soundless and sly, like dancer ghosting the floor in the midst of a larger routine. He kissed Carisi sweetly, just the corner of his mouth, the place where his lips began to part and he stored all his sidelong offerings. Barba kissed it closed. 

_No,_ he wanted to say. _No, no, no, no._

“Mm. Nice try. But no. We’re going to school.” He finished his performance with a hearty clap of Carisi’s shoulder as he breezed by, abandoning the opportunity of the balcony for the cloistered safety of the room. “Nice pants, by the way.”

-

They exited the subway in Harvard Square, a verifiable village curling around one of the campus’ far corners. Restaurants, shops, and bookstores sprouted up from the cobblestone paths and tried to remain humble among the greenery and scenic backdrop. Cambridge was as fastidious a place as it sounded, well removed from Boston, but further still a departure from the rest of the world. 

Coming from the Bronx, it was beyond Barba’s own imagining. He couldn’t have pictured silence this pure if he was given a million years to try. 

And while Barba knew himself to be reticent for this return expedition, he was also secretly nostalgic for his law school days. A feeling, he knew, that hadn’t visited him since he began mentoring Carisi. He’d wanted to achieve great things, and for some time now, Harvard had settled in the back of his mind only as a means to an end. The experience of the place itself became hollowed out, a container for all he’d done since, the contents of which spilled over enough so as to obscure their beginnings.

The grounds were fairly empty, busied more by tourists than students and faculty. Such was summer. The remaining student body would be tucked away in any of the grand buildings, heads down, their work spread out before them in ever-growing piles. Twenty years back, that was where Barba saw himself. For as unchanged as the campus was, Barba even entertained visiting the law library, seeking out his preferred table, and spying himself there. 

The thought passed him, and suddenly Barba felt foolish for being there, playing guide for someone whose path kept him on that crowded island, a fate Barba had dreaded and actively campaigned against. But a sidelong glance to Carisi found him awed, and not bitter for it. The place thrilled him like any great spectacle might. Barba relaxed, tried to gain purchase on the idea that Harvard could have a sense of humor about itself.

“It’s less… bricks and mortar than I expected,” Carisi pronounced after they’d abandoned a larger street for the narrow, winding paths that intercut the grounds. “But there _are_ literal spires.”

“Defenses,” Barba said, cutting to the heart of the place’s inherent visual absurdities, “Should anyone attempt to burst our bubble of self-importance.” 

Carisi smiled, ducked his head in an attempt to deny the comment. His bright eyes set themselves upon the place, tracing every building, touching every face. Quietly, happily, he learned what he could outside a classroom. His gaze always seem to draw back and set itself on Barba, a finer interest, surely. 

Though they walked side-by-side, Barba led, his gait graceful and assured. Carisi had seen him like this before--gliding through the halls of the courthouse, commanding space and allowing none to cross him.

The aviators were back, too. Returned to their place on the frontlines, they were a gleam of silver against the tan of Barba’s throat.

“You look great, by the way.”

“Successful nonchalance firing on all cylinders?” 

“Yep. And your beard’s coming in like the Navy.”

Barba snorted. 

Carisi’s next question found him like a shot--unexpected, potentially deadly.

“Why’d you go here?”

Barba nearly tripped his tongue over all the wrong answers: I got in. I wasn’t going to say no. _They let me._

Wrong, only because they gave too much of him away. Although he left it with his head held high, Harvard was loaded with his insecurities. Barba dreaded the prospect of tripping one of these mines. 

“The cafeteria had great yelp reviews,” he said, smile twisting as easily as though it hadn’t been practiced a million times. “Why do you think?”

“I mean, I bet you got offers from all over,” Carisi explained, further proving to Barba how inescapably _innocent_ he was. There’d been no question of class undercutting his inquiry, only genuine curiosity towards Barba’s own desires. “Why not Yale or Stanford? Or Columbia?” 

There _had_ been offers, Barba remembered. Columbia in particular wanted him among their ranks, leaving no fewer than six phone messages in the span of a week. Then there was the Yale representative who met him for coffee, who had been blunt regarding their offer: if he even took a meeting with Harvard, he could forget about Yale. It was an ultimatum to which Barba replied simply, _“Forgotten.”_

“I’m not just saying this because we’re here and the walls have ears, but Harvard was always the gold standard for me.” 

Despite saying so himself-- _saying so_ about _saying so_ \--and believing it heartily, the sentiment didn’t sound right. In fact it sounded like a blatant _lie._

Barba reminded himself who he was speaking to--Carisi, who didn't doubt his choices in anything, and who wouldn't judge them otherwise. Carisi, with whom he shared his body and mind. Barba supposed he could have a little piece of his heart, too, and admitted something that weighed heavily there: “I thought I’d have some kind of… moral purity. Going in. Putting myself among these ranks like an overt challenge to their order.”

Carisi smiled, satisfied that Barba had made an effort to answer honestly. He liked Barba for his subversive streak. It was genuine, and it beat inside him like a heart fat with muscle and blood, no matter how painstakingly he chose to regulate it with rules and precedent. 

“How’d that work out?”

Barba rolled his eyes at himself. He was thinking much the same as Carisi, that he’d longed to put himself in that revolutionary light, but the facts bore out that he was no Che Guevara. 

“An ulcer I’d been nursing, I think, since the fifth grade burst during orientation.”

Carisi grinned openly, wide like his accent had taught him, given all the stretching it did around even the narrowest of vowels. He knew full well we would never be party to all the grizzly details. Barba, despite his good humor, had too much pride in himself for that. 

“And they didn’t memorialize the trail of blood?”

Even under the shade of a broad-armed tree, Barba’s eyes glittered as if filled with sunlight. “Not even a plaque.”

A breeze stirred the air and the sun split open the sky. Carisi watched as Barba drew on his sunglasses and pocketed his hands. 

“Do you think any of your old professors are still here?”

“I’m sure there’s one or two who refuse to die.”

They kept walking, their pace easy, their shared presence amicable, until Carisi slowed to a stop before a towering building so heavy with its own greatness it required scores of white marble columns to keep it upright. They were as proud and improbable as redwoods. That anyone could first conceive of such a grandiose shape was absurd, so it had to be that they’d grown. How long had they been there, to be so big? When did this all start?

Barba watched these questions pass over Carisi’s face. His expression was neither envious or wistful, only glad. 

Glad because he knew someone who had conquered this impossible place, someone who took him to walk the paths like a returning soldier over the battlefield that made him. It seemed a more fantastic thing than if he’d charged the grounds himself. 

“Do you feel like you've won?” Carisi asked, gaze still set high upon the building. “Or is that, I dunno, too small?” 

He frowned at his own wording, but didn't overwork it with more. Either he'd hit near the mark or he'd pulverize the field looking for it. 

Barba found the terms, though simple, surprisingly perceptive. Personally, if he considered his home, name, and upbringing as conventions of war, a victory was right: he'd overcome them all. To see outside himself, however, was to observe his own overreach and hubris. Nothing he had was his, except for the work. 

“Both,” Barba said.

Carisi smiled. It was rare that Barba was blankety agreeable, rarer still that Carisi was twice right in the same breath. 

Then from one extreme to the other, Carisi skipped Barba’s formative Harvard years entirely and found their end, asking: “Why didn’t you take up a job at a big firm somewhere?”

“I did,” Barba said, and watched as his admission thoroughly surprised the detective. This much, he knew, deserved some explanation. 

“For a year. Couldn’t stand to sell my soul entirely, so I rented it out. Made enough money to leave the Bronx, get my apartment.”

“That--your apartment?” Carisi frowned, then, and was objectively shocked. “That was your first apartment?”

Barba raised an eyebrow, suspect. “What lies do they peddle to all you gentle souls at Fordham? Don’t let anyone tell you corporate law isn’t lucrative.”

“So you’d been there--”

“A while.”

“Like--two decades?”

“Almost.”

“Jesus. I didn't know.”

“How could you?” Barba pointed out, more bemused than anything. “I didn't exactly carve a notch for every year into the doorframe.” 

“That would have been helpful,” Carisi joked, but the humor was absent from his voice. He was already too far gone down the rabbit hole, and as was often the case for him, sadness was second nature to understanding. 

The investment of so much time had made Barba’s apartment his _home,_ a fact that mattered very little when circumstance turned against him. Forget the years of lovers passing in and out the door or the questionable wallpaper he went with during a very low period in 2003--he’d outlasted _doormen._ And then, over one evening, Barba had been led through his own threshold, made party to an egregious act of violence, and was simultaneously forced out of the place. 

It was a deal struck on the same table as his life--win or lose, one of them had to go. 

Carisi felt foolish for not knowing what Barba had left behind. A space carved out of the city that was as familiar to him as a limb was due its reverence. Carisi recalled when Barba told him he'd already moved, a thing that placed the physical uprooting around the same time as his trial--itself, a mental evisceration. 

And Carisi remembered accepting it blindly, even teasing Barba when the fallout temporarily put him back in the Bronx. He hadn't even extended a second thought to reach that far, and was embarrassed for it. It showed, now: sympathy sloped his shoulders and guided his hand to brush Barba’s at his side. Barba didn’t indulge.

Contrary to Carisi's dismay, Barba had made peace with the parting. It was easier, he supposed, that what he'd experienced there made it impossible for him to want to stay. 

Which suggested whatever bright side he saw was lit by fire. _Well, at least it was **awful.**_

He bumped his shoulder into Carisi's.

“Granted, it was empty for about five years, when I began working for the City. Futon, record player,” he ticked off all that he’d housed in his apartment back before he could little more than rent, coffee, and whatever upgrades he could provide to his wardrobe. “I lived like I was twenty well into my thirties. But it was where I wanted to be.”

“All the same, I'm sorry you lost it.”

Barba smiled in joined sympathy, but inside he could summon none for himself. The sentiment wasn't quite right. Barba had surrendered it, yes, out of necessity, sure. But to suggest he _lost_ it denied his own culpability. It could have still been his if he'd had the confidence to stay.

“You’re staring,” Barba said of Carisi after he followed his eye up towards the building he’d stationed himself before, a sapling before titans. Behind the reflective lens of his aviators, Barba’s gaze softened. “Do you want to go inside?”

-

Barba used his alumni status to get them access to buildings normally closed off to the public. They were grander still than how they appeared outside. The halls were carved out of time, it seemed, to foster some greater set of truth and ideals. Everything old seemed to groan and profess its greatness as the marbled halls spilled open to an endless succession of studies and lounges with evenly-spaced tables, polished wood floors, and big bright windows. Bathed in red and held together by visible wooden beams, touring Annenberg Hall was like walking through a whale’s skeletal insides as it lived and breathed. 

Still, it took all of Carisi’s willpower not to point out each and every piece of furniture he came across with gaudy clawfeet styling. 

Their final stop was the law library, where Barba again flashed his alumni card and Carisi fumbled with his guest pass.

“Do you carry that around with you all the time?”

“Let’s say no.”

The place was grave and storied, designed with an open middle that reminded Carisi every inch of a cathedral. Carisi was in quiet awe of the place and, honestly--so was Barba. It felt as intimidating as when he first arrived, sight unseen, still praying that his scholarship wasn’t an elaborate joke. 

They took the stairs to the upper levels, mindful of the students who occupied the tables with their work. Among the endless rows of shelved books, they were less likely to disturb the peace.

“Hey,” Carisi said, hushed, because his reverence for the place was persistent. He tugged on Barba’s wrist, pulled him close as they walked the stacks. For a moment, Barba was drawn back in time, as surely as one could fall into the pages of a book and lose themselves for an hour, he felt disappeared. 

The kiss--though expected--was a surprising delight. The touch was soft, the gesture sly. The latter was not so much a feature in Carisi’s wheelhouse: being tall, gangly, and with a mouth that ran as far as his wingspan, playing coy and going unnoticed wasn’t a natural inclination, nevermind a feature. 

But now, well--for as expertly as he drew Barba into the moment, somewhere lost among heavy texts and archaic literature, Barba could have mistaken him for a master craftsman. 

Carisi’s breath was still warm on Barba’s lips when he broke away with a ready smile. 

He said, “Let’s find the yearbooks.”

-

What found Carisi on the page as though _it_ had been looking for _him_ was a set of eyes. Heavy-lidded from a perpetual lack of sleep, it was as though there had been care taken in framing them. They shone with a known intensity, and even in the black and white of the photo, there was lingering evidence of that familiar green, evenly flecked with brown and gold. Longer hair was swept back to showcase a familiar brow, that proud nose the centerpiece to a narrower face.

Certainly, he would have been easy enough to spot without his captivating features. He was the only _Barba_ among the varying second and third editions of various Baylors, Bishops, Burgesses, and Covingtons. 

Carisi couldn’t help but to grip Barba’s shoulders as he stood over him, Barba manning the books like it was an intricate piece of machinery. More likely, because he knew where the bodies were buried. If there were any unflattering images of a twenty-something Rafael Barba--a concept Carisi doubted--they were passed over.

“You were just a _kid_ holy _shit!_ ” 

“Easy,” Barba murmured, though his warning had little to do with the volume of Carisi’s proclamation. Privately, he was pleased with the response. He’d never felt particularly childish in the whole of his life, but he wouldn’t turn his nose up at the reality. To accept that he had been young gave him leeway towards the fact that he’d allowed himself to suffer so readily for what he wanted. 

It was almost an entirely separate concept from the work. There were the lengths he went to succeed academically--the constant grind, the sleepless nights, the endless hours he put into learning more and doubting less--and then there were the emotional depths he plumbed towards social acceptance. The tight-lipped dinners, the smiles that bit back screams, the ache in his heart he dismissed when some earth-shattering comment slithered out the mouths of his friends. 

A kid wouldn’t have known any better. 

Barba turned another couple pages, but Carisi turned them back. 

He saw those eyes again and didn’t need to ask, but the idea of being right thrilled him. 

“Is that you? Is that a _mustache?”_

In the picture, Barba was among three other students, a woman and two men, who were sat cross-legged at the base of a tree, their bags dumped in a heap on the leaf-strewn earth. Only Barba was standing, leaning easily against the tree trunk, a backpack slung over one arm and still more books in hand where he held them against his hip. His other hand held a simple travel mug. His sweater was heavy and his jeans snug--complements of the age--but that mustache hung on his lip like a cause du jour.

The set of Barba’s jaw before he answered was audible.

“I can explain.”

But Carisi wouldn’t hear it, at least not without getting a few digs in, first. 

“The eighties were over, dude. Tom Selleck already had his day.”

“The _date,”_ Barba insisted, pointing to the page, as if that much should absolve him his facial hair choices. “Late October, see?”

“So what? Only your lip was chilly?” 

“Really? _Really?_ ” Although Carisi was smooth-faced after having shaved that morning, Barba stared mercilessly as though the evidence would jump to present itself. “You’re one to talk.”

Carisi rubbed his upper lip thoughtlessly. “Hey, I couldn’t even grow a mustache at twenty-four. Give me a break, I was excitable.”

“Uh-huh. I was not. This was hardly an experiment. It was a conscious endeavor grounded in reason and purpose and--” At Carisi’s increasingly broad smile, Barba sighed, accepted that he wouldn’t fool Carisi out of an explanation, and gave up the ghost: “There was a Halloween party. I went as Freddie Mercury.”

Carisi’s face lit up. His smile split apart, opening enough for his bottom lip to be bitten in an attempt to head off any disgustingly pleased noises. He willed himself into quiet submission, instead. 

“Where is _that_ picture?” he asked, and immediately began turning pages in the yearbook.

“Nonexistent,” Barba said firmly.

Carisi was adamant as he turned still more pages, searching every one. He came to the end of the book, uncovered up nothing, and started over from the beginning. “No, no, I refuse to believe that. Time travellers would have gone back and taken that photo. Sured it up for all future timelines.”

His voice warm enough to cook the words through, Barba laid out an appetizing truth for Carisi: “Maybe… I have one somewhere. But it's not in the archives, I'm not sorry to say.”

Recalling the impossibly tight white pants, Barba allowed, “I did look… phenomenal.” 

Carisi groaned, then dropped his head against Barba's shoulder. For Barba to say so of himself was telling; he so often wore a shroud of faux-nonchalance over his exquisitely tailored suits, as if to say, _Oh, this? Just something I threw on. These pattern compositions? I saw them once in the face of God. No big deal._

Carisi went back to the photo and took it in again with fresh eyes. Strangely, neither the candid shot nor the portrait were particularly revolutionary images of Barba. He seemed hardly a participant in either, which called to Carisi as a truth less suspect than daunting. It wasn’t that Barba had never changed, it was that he’d grown so quickly into the vision of the man he wanted to be. He persisted towards this goal, and rarely dallied.

 _You look finished,_ Carisi wanted to say, but held his tongue. That kind of talk was too near what Barba had come to think of himself. 

Carisi put on a sweeter smile and asked, “Was it always going to be Freddie Mercury, or was Stalin still in the mix at this point?”

“Stalin didn’t wear tight pants and tank tops, of which I had suspiciously many.” 

Barba felt an obscene amount of pleasure for making Carisi groan again. It clawed through his esophagus and eked out, causing him to sink slightly in its absence. It was as though mankind was only afforded so many, and unholy utterances were in short supply in the Dominick Carisi model. 

Drawing him towards want of a fiction was nothing like having him in bed, begging for the real thing, but this much suited the venue. 

Pleased with himself, Barba continued, “Plus, ironically dressing like a genocidal nationalist wasn't as _en vogue_ as it is today.”

Carisi rolled his eyes, but the gesture was warm, a vessel of mirth where Barba only ever served up the look on a knife’s edge. 

“You want to know the most unbelievable thing about this picture?” Carisi asked, his smile small but assured. At Barba’s inquisitive look-- _do tell_ \--he pointed to the travel mug, out of which hung a small string and paper label at the end. “You’re drinking _tea._ ”

-

They left the library in search of coffee, but didn’t linger in the quaint cafe across campus. Both were content, instead, to walk and talk.

“Second impressions?” Barba asked, and swallowed down a necessary gulp so quickly that the heat hardly registered. 

“It’s amazing,” Carisi said, then gestured to the buildings and the obvious lack of students alike. “Kind of… old world.” 

“Such was the student body,” Barba said on another sip. “Old money, nouveau riche, poor,” Barba held his hand in the air, designating their place in the hierarchy. Well below even the dreaded _nouveau riche_ and leprotic _poor_ was his own standing: “ _Scholarship_ poor.” 

“I know you’d tell me if I asked,” Carisi said, sounding confident. “But I didn’t know if you wanted me to ask.”

Barba glanced at him, suspicious. Carisi rarely talked around an issue; normally, he dove right in, never mind checking to see if there was room enough to plumb. Barba thought perhaps Carisi had a sharper mind than that, and knew his methods precisely. Harvard acted as a sort of malformed echo chamber, into which Carisi could whisper his curiosities and Barba would bello answers out. 

“What do you want to know?”

Carisi shrugged. He was certain if allowed to formulate his own questions on the matter, he’d accomplish little more than an unfortunate and grossly misguided commentary. SVU--and Amanda in particular--could take the credit for curbing Carisi’s natural inclination towards opening with whatever brash, uncensored thought first popped into his head. In Homicide, his insensitivity was a blessing, and it fed on itself to sustain his domineering investigative style, itself an easy means to relieve the tension he harbored in seeing so much human callousness and distraction. 

“I guess… when did you realize complete strangers would take it personally. Achieving something, I mean.” Carisi wet his lips and, as if concerned he hadn’t made himself clear, provided an example: “Like, when I was an altar boy, it was literally the best thing. The _best thing_ that had ever happened to me. And suddenly, because I was lighting a few candles and collecting Bibles, I had to be answerable to everybody’s opinions about that. For, like, _ever._ ” 

Barba quirked the corner of his mouth--not quite a smile, more like he had the foresight to tuck away a biting remark or two, to grind the words between his molars and send his cheek for reinforcements. Maybe people asked after his well-being in that roundabout tone that coiled sweetness over unease. Could he really blame them? 

“Seeing as I wasn’t--what were you, twelve? I knew what I was getting into.” 

Barba considered the question, supposed he could rattle off a tale or two about those small-minded individuals who saw his presence as a personal slight, a thing that ought to be theirs, though their fortunes and legacies paved their way several times over. He pictured himself in that place again, however, and refused to give it an audience. 

“You’d think we’d seek each other out, stick together,” he said of himself and all others who graced these grounds, their scholarships like precious tickets to the greatest show on earth. “But we all had the same idea of not being seen with our own kind. We were less of a novelty that way.”

Carisi thought that sounded shrewder than even Barba was inclined to be, and said as much. 

“You’d be surprised,” Barba retorted coolly. He took a seat on a nearby bench and Carisi joined him. They had a view of the bronze John Harvard statue. Its rubbed-raw right boot caught the sunlight and glittered. 

“But you’re right. It didn’t last long.” Being affable to the affluent, he’d found, was grating on the soul. “If ever there was a time to revel in class politics, it was my twenties.”

If Carisi expected a story, he’d have to wait a hundred years. Such was the distance Barba felt from himself in that moment, trying to recall his youth in a place that never really had much time for such a thing. 

Harvard was not the first instance he’d felt a distortion taking place just beneath his skin, and it wouldn’t be the last. And for all the good it did him, the prestige it brought and doors it opened, Barba felt shunted, broken into a different shape by the experience. For a long time even he believed it would be best-- _better_ \--to be a contortion of the ideal than his own true self. 

It was tiring. Barba remembered that much very well. His search for personal context in a place that inherently stood itself apart had been a constant production. If he put his therapist’s teachings to good work, he’d had thought that there was surely some benefit in sitting quietly and reflecting on all that he’d strived for, never had, and ultimately did not need. 

Instead, Barba sipped his coffee and stared firmly at the statue. _Move,_ he thought uselessly. _Move if I’m wrong._

Beside him, Carisi sat wholly unaware of the internal war that was carrying on--a revival of past battles won, but sorely remembered. Believing that Barba was short with himself--too much so to present a genuine picture--Carisi found he could only imagine this journey, extrapolate from what he saw as the end production, and work backwards to a tumultuous beginning. 

He searched for the words and, certain he himself did not have them, went to the master. 

Carisi quoted a Walter Briggs line about one man’s escape into business and work--themselves the grim and ultimately false creations of mankind--and ultimately his return to his own home in nature, where life was brutal, but forgiving of his soul. Barba didn’t recognize it at first, but he could tell it for a line in the way Carisi had to dig it up from inside himself. It made Barba smile to hear it: the words felt genuine and thoughtful, and the sentiment was touching, if a little overwrought. Barba supposed it was how Carisi _wished_ he thought about things: confidently, sincerely, with an ease that belied heady thought.

Barba hoped he one day realized he had the first two down, and the third was an ugly appropriation of intellectualism. 

Carisi shortened, then revisited the quote: “Does it feel like returning to your own world?”

“No,” Barba answered. “Not to knock your favorite author, but. I don’t think you can return to something once you’ve left it.”

Carisi cocked his head as if the idea had rolled to one side and weighed the rest of him down. “Well. I’m here.”

“And yet I am no longer getting us both off and sending you on your merry way in all of twenty minutes flat.”

“I thought the fast turnaround was a politeness thing.”

Barba grinned a little, sensing that the comment was made in his favor. “You had places to be,” he reasoned coolly. “And I am nothing if not polite.”

“It’s what first springs to my mind.”

“If that’s any shade of true, I’ve gravely underserved myself.”

“It’s not,” Carisi admitted. “You haven’t.”

“Stupendous.” 

And in just a few seconds, Barba was reminded why he liked Carisi’s company, why it drummed out the coldness from his bones and seemed to warm his own skin. It was an intoxicating combination of joyful, teasing, and sincere. Carisi was those things and more, but never easy, as Barba had once thought. The sincerity threw _that one_ clear out the window. All that was natural and abundant in Carisi forged an entire atmosphere and sense of being Barba could not stir up from within himself. Barba had always been wired towards the darker shades of being, and was governed by contentment, cynicism, and brutal honesty. 

“It’s different now. This? Is different,” Barba said, perhaps in some respects only to hear himself say so. He felt foolish for asking, but tried: “Do you--?”

 _Agree? Think so? Feel it, too?_ It was some grand cosmic joke, then, that he should find himself voiceless and silent, wholly unable to summon from himself the only words that mattered. 

Carisi spared him. “I do, yeah.” 

He bumped his knee to Barba’s, then left it so their thighs rested comfortably against one another. 

“Did you enjoy yourself, at least?” Carisi raised his chin towards the stature of the university’s founder. “I’m only asking ‘cause--I loved Fordham. Even night school, where everyone was exhausted and hungry and angry all the time. It was the best. Everyone I met there--the best.”

Barba considered enjoyment as concept--his first clue that his answer might not be as sunny as Carisi’s. 

Harvard was an isolating experience, and an education several times over. Barba learned to be alone, not lonely. The former allowed for short bursts of company, ideally overnight. In those remaining twenty-odd hours, he pursued a singular goal, one that mandated some manipulation of the soul as he juggled luncheons and networking opportunities with the profound love he was developing for the law. As he gave himself to others, he bettered the version he left behind, his decoy model. And when he came back and saw what a thing had grown in his stead, he took it on as his own identity. It was ready-made to fit him, and though the insides were hollow and it was cold, he thought, _I’ll grow into it._

“Well…”

Barba recalled Carisi’s inquiry from the day before: how had he never gone the ten minutes outside of Cambridge to see a baseball game? The answer, to him, was astoundingly simple. He wasn’t that _stupid._ If not studying, his mind was otherwise spun around thoughts of maintaining his scholarship. Though his grades never slipped such as to threaten it, and his behavior was ideal (and what wasn’t was well-hidden), Barba could count on one hand the times he’d left campus on a whim. Those precautions were necessary; anything less would have been foolish at best, and damnable at worst. 

He’d left home for this, and there was an unspoken deal--struck by an offering hand and his own going gamely to meet it--that he would not go back. There was no greater nightmare than the prospect of being _sent_ home. Returned, as if faulty. 

As a result, he saw his mother twice in three years. Each time she held him tight, but was always the first to let go. He knew she understood.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, aware of his silence. He smirked, shrugged, and hoped he hadn’t given himself away with only his thoughts. “It was hardly the gulags.”

In truest avoidance fashion, Barba slipped his phone from his pocket and made himself preoccupied. He scrolled through work and spam emails while Carisi sat patiently, sipping his coffee, waiting out what he’d learned was best not to interrupt. 

_[Did I see you at Widener?]_

“Our presence has not gone unnoticed,” Barba hummed, and read through the accompanying texts from an unknown number on his phone. The mystery cleared itself and he smiled halfheartedly, said, “I’ve got a friend asking to meet us for lunch. He’s a professor here. How about it? You can ask all the theoretical questions I couldn’t give a shit about answering.”

“Oh, man. Score. Can I trade up? Date him?”

Barba smirked, then extended his arm, artfully curled his hand, and patted Carisi on the cheek. 

“I applaud your grandiose sense of self, but, really. Who but me would have you?” 

As if to prove Barba’s point, Carisi turned his head and poked out his tongue, catching Barba’s palm, effectively _licking his hand_ and therefore so thoroughly offending the Counselor’s sensibilities that Carisi had to laugh at the sheer look of abject betrayal on the man’s face. 

“So all that talk about me being the catch in this here relationship?”

“A clever ruse,” Barba muttered, wiping his hand with exaggerated necessity on Carisi’s shirtsleeve. “To suggest I meant it sincerely, now, is… entirely baffling. I’m _baffled._ ”

Carisi shook slightly from unspent laughter. By the look on Barba’s face, Carisi may as well have licked a hungry stripe from elbow to hand, and for his trouble taken a finger off at the joint. 

“How did that seriously gross you out? I’ve--” Carisi looked pointedly at Barba’s long fingers, delicate digits he’d gleefully sucked down one, two at a time. More than the slick of his tongue, those fingers had known the hollows of his cheeks. “-- _you know._ Before.”

“In _context,_ it’s _fine._ ”

“You look about one second from booking a flight home.”

“I could honestly go either way right now.”

-

Anthony DeSouza was no older than Barba--no taller, either. He was lean, compact, like his was the body of an athlete just this side of retired. His dark features were set with great, heavily-lidded eyes resting so forward in his face it seemed they might take off someplace else. They were balanced by his wide mouth, perpetually open to two fine rows of white teeth. 

They had once been lovers. Carisi did not need to be told; he was a detective, after all, but even lacking that he had eyes of his own. He saw the tenderness in Barba’s face when he pulled back from the brief embrace shared with his friend. It was a look that spoke to years of camaraderie, nights of something nearer.

When the time came, he extended his hand. A greeting, yes, but Carisi hoped the other man knew he was passing the torch. 

-

They took lunch at a sprawling cafe, with halls and corners that opened into quasi-private dining areas. They passed groups of educators talking animatedly among themselves, as well as the increasingly common sight of students sat in solitude behind a wall of books or laptop screens. Their food was cast off to one side, drawing flies. 

Carisi wanted to charm their host, but was wary of making the kind of first impression for which he was best known--that is, rough. Uncouth. He tempered his impulse to be a part of the conversation and spoke instead in smiles, nodded and laughed when appropriate. Barba noticed--of course--and drew Carisi back in--baiting him, really, and issuing compliments that were never really that. 

It was news to Carisi, but in one of his first cases at SVU--wherein he implied a fasttracked immigration status hearing to a young witness in a gruesome sex trafficking case--was suddenly, in Barba’s telling, not the colossal fuck-up it had once been. 

“And you worked in Homicide before Special Victims?” Anthony asked, his an encouraging smile Carisi expected he bestowed on his students before he gutted them with the socratic method. It wasn’t a previous topic of discussion, which meant Barba had likely texted him, given him the run-down. Carisi wondered what all Barba had supplied--just the basics? Intimate details? Filler? 

“Yeah,” Carisi said. “Couple years. I’m glad to be at Special Victims, now.” 

“Is there a difference?” Anthony asked. “Between victims, I mean?”

“Sure. The husbands and boyfriends haven’t killed most of these girls, yet.” 

Carisi’s response had all the finesse of a toddler wielding a blunt object. 

“Little… cop humor,” Anthony surmised, and glanced at Barba for confirmation. 

“It’s a fair--if depressing--assessment,” Barba allowed. 

With little prompting, Barba and Anthony fell into their time at Harvard together, Barba’s voice running fast and travelling high as he disputed some incredible tale or another. Anthony’s smile sank and his chatter slowed, however, after he briefed his company about his career since school, and touched upon Barba’s. 

“I heard about what happened,” he said, as much an introduction as the thing deserved. “Not particularly agreeable lunchtime discussion, I know, but of course I’m--appalled.” 

If Carisi worried he’d do something kind and tender, like extending a hand across the table to take Barba’s in it, he was disappointed. Anthony did something far more damning: he read Barba, quietly and surely, and sussed out a private truth as though it had been spelled out in marquee lights behind Barba’s head. 

“You don’t seem at all touched by it. Which, if I know you, means it’s eating you up inside.”

Barba smirked around his glass. “You know me a little.” 

“Excuse me,” Carisi said, standing from the table. “I gotta use the restroom real quick.”

Anthony watched him go. “He’s adorable,” he said. “Well done.”

Barba waved a dismissive hand. Even with like-minded sorts, he found it difficult to articulate the relationship he was party to, as if his own words could leave it misshapen. 

“Yes, it was all me. I selected brilliantly.” 

“You often do,” Anthony said. The waitress arrived to refill their drinks, and the pair waited her out in silence. Barba, because Anthony had already served himself the compliment. Anthony, because Barba was seemingly still refusing to hear him.

Then, as if he hadn’t said so twice since sitting down, Anthony repeated: “It’s good to see you again, Rafael.”

Barba had understood him the first time, of course, though he’d needed time to maneuver his own response. It had to be exact, lest Barba lose his footing and step into familiar territory.

“You, too. I’m surprised you stayed, went the professorial route,” he admitted, having always thought Anthony would be that hold-out liberal idealist who returned to his small town Texas home and fought the oil companies that employed every member of his extended family. “But I’m immensely glad for it.”

“Count yourself among the dean and our most generous donors,” Anthony said with a wry smile, “Who seem greatly concerned with the decor, for as often as I’ve overhead how much _color_ I inject to the place.”

“I’m guessing, one?”

“One color,” Anthony grinned in agreement. He leaned forward over the table, eyes catching in the soft light creeping in as the day passed overhead. Anthony’s eyelashes cut a line and cast a shadow across his cheek, an imperfection to better showcase the beauty. “You should come back sometime, give a guest lecture.”

Barba barked a laugh. “You do not want to give me that kind of power.”

“I was giving you an excuse.”

The breath in his mouth didn’t crumble like dry bread. His heart didn’t rise or sink or otherwise dismantle itself from his chest cavity. Barba had expected this, maybe even wanted it. 

Orchestrated it, no, not entirely. Presided over it, surely. 

And so his refusal didn’t feel like quite the sweeping gesture he’d envisioned. Barba took from it only the sinking realization that he was, in turns, a shallow piece of work. 

“Carisi and I are together.” 

“So that'd be--?”

“A ‘no,’” Barba finished. “Honored, but no.” 

Disappointment colored Anthony’s face like a bad smell, but quickly passed. He smiled politely, nodded, then chanced once more: “Tempted?”

Barba stayed the course. “Honored.”

“Well. Good for you.” 

“Say again? I couldn’t hear over the sound of your lilting applause.” Barba heard the drag in his own voice, like a cigarette being snuffed out with some gusto. The embers popped and died. He felt his leg jump anxiously under the table, and his therapist’s words in his mother’s voice echoed sharply in his head, no longer asking where he wanted to be, but saying so, accusingly, _This? This is where? What the fuck is this?_

“Really,” Anthony said, and went so far as to raise his glass. “Good for you.”

Barba met it with his own, toasted, “He is that.” 

Carisi returned to the table none the wiser. Rather, he was invigorated by a self-administered bathroom peptalk to draw Anthony into a conversation about his teaching methods and what he valued most about the law. Anthony listened and gave considered replies, each littered with enough case law and vague mention of theory that Carisi had to fight the urge to take notes. His speech was winding and deceptively cool, ready set on his audience, but his attention drifted to Barba. His gaze was altogether too sweet a thing to be levied over a table of leftover sandwich crusts and a slowly oxidizing fruit plate, much less the tedious talk of law that spilled over everything like a morning fog. 

Noticing this, Barba set a hand on Carisi’s thigh and gave it a simple, reassuring pat. A mimed disclosure that he was neither oblivious nor fooled. It was a better thing to have done, he knew, than his earlier display. 

The late lunch remained that, and did not dip into evening. All the same, they left the restaurant under the impression that it was later in the day. The limitless, cloudless sky into which their morning had opened now hung low and heavy, dark with the promise of rain. It weighed over the spires and treetops, taunting its release.

Carisi thought maybe Barba knew better than to overstay his welcome, or he knew where a few too many drinks would take him. Maybe he’d done this before. 

“That went well. Don’t you think?” 

Carisi huffed a breathless laugh. “You want to chew those words more so you can swallow them?”

“It was… inherently weird. And that was my fault. I forgot Anthony and I were never really friends.” 

“Did you have _any?_ ” Carisi asked, then winced, embarrassed. “Sorry. It just seems like either you don’t like anybody you went to school with, or you slept with them.”

“Interesting rendering of my character,” Barba hummed. “I’ve never been cut down to size so concisely. How refreshing.”

“Single-sentence takedowns. It’s what I do.”

It wasn’t a genuine question. Carisi had shaken it off fast as he’d said it, and was talking in the scenic view of pristine hedges and historic homes as he and Barba walked back towards campus. But it stuck on Barba, affixed to him like a leech. 

He’d had friends, a great many back in New York. Being unable to relate to people was something he tied to his sexuality and his youth and the enormity of what he’d set out to do for himself. He hadn’t thought--not with any real weight--that the change had happened _here,_ and was something he picked up like a classics minor.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, projected ease. Beside him, Carisi cased the move and was not convinced.

Barba hadn’t known the emotional cost of what he’d done, accepting a scholarship and the opportunity for an Ivy League education. He was absent for three years, only present in phone calls and letters, and even then less and less as school monopolized his time. Upon his return-- _el hijo pródigo de la avenida Jerome_ \--he was welcomed, kissed, embraced. But then, his friends had not waited, and nor had he for them, and it was no great cruelty, only a simple reality: they’d grown apart. 

Their intentions never quite synced, and in the end it was how it looked: Barba had gone on to greater things, tempered his Spanish and mannerisms, compartmentalized his upbringing, and did his level best to become the enemy--the elite. But he’d only made those changes-- _minor, all,_ he believed, if no one else would--to survive. 

Or so he used to think. Yelina and Alex stayed in the projects, and until his involvement, had not only survived, but thrived. 

“Alex Muñoz went to Fordham,” Barba said, a sudden stone pitched into the silence.

Carisi blinked, surprised. “I know.”

“I bet his picture is up all over the place.”

“It was.” Formally and not--there were accolades and photographs, but taped-up posters, too, championing him for Mayor of New York, though by sheer volume alone, Muñoz appeared to be promising the second coming of Christ. Carisi kept that particular detail to himself.

“I fail my friends more often than not, it seems,” Barba said, then quirked a self-deprecating smile, shoulder, eyebrow--all of them together moved to lift himself into a place he did not often occupy, an ethereal atmosphere just overhead where he could admit his faults without hearing a referendum. “That may account for my not having many.” 

Barba made the admission sound easy, even chic. Carisi sidestepped the showmanship and hug into the heart of the matter.

“Uh-huh. Big talk for someone who spends their working life championing the rights of complete strangers.” 

Barba rolled his eyes and drawled a tired, “Ah, you’ve convinced me. I’m a saint.”

“I mean, you do alright. Let’s not get blasphemous.”

The air smelled sweet, tasted warm like rain. They were on the cusp of it. 

“I was so jealous of him,” Barba continued, knowing full well he didn’t need to, that Carisi’s snappy line was only that, and he certainly hadn’t asked for a friendship retrospective. It was something about Harvard, Barba decided, that made him think unwaveringly of home. “A natural leader, an innovator. So smart, with the foresight and charm to make it look easy. He was clever enough to be proud of Fordham. I only ever wanted Harvard to be proud of me.” He pursed his lips, begging silence from himself, then being denied. “I suppose I still am. Jealous.”

“You’re a good man. I’m not so convinced he was.”

 _He’s better,_ Barba thought, still gravely aware of the hurt Alex had caused Yelina. 

Barba felt Carisi’s hand brush by his elbow, reaching out as if to touch him fully, but falling short. 

“Can I ask… did you have a thing with him?”

“Because I knew him, it stands to reason I slept with him?”

“Because when you talk about him, you look like you’re going to be sick.” 

Barba’s face felt hot and though he told himself it was the humidity ahead of the creeping rain, the weather could not answer for the way his heart tightened in his chest and drew his hand to his throat, where he thumbed open the second button in his shirt, needing the release.

“He was my best friend,” he said, and felt as though he was surrendering some grand secret. “I loved him. Not like I loved Yelina, or,” Barba shook his head; he needn’t name names. “After graduating and going back to New York, I told him, since Yelina, that it had mostly been men. He… comisterated. Said it was just as well, there was no doing better than Yelina.” 

The smile on Barba’s face was all wrong--tempered and kind, a little hurt. Carisi did not like the look of it, thought it lacked bite. 

“He accepted you.”

“He could have muddied the waters for me. He didn’t.” 

Carisi turned, obscuring his face from Barba lest he see the utter astonishment that played out there, the kind that sent his eyes rolling back into his skull and sank his lower lip, like a fish being lined in. It was an ugly face to match the sentiment: “Wow, a basic human curtesy. What a guy.” 

“I was the best man at his wedding.”

“Oh my god, that’s even worse!”

With unexpected and substantial force, Barba took Carisi by the shoulder and yanked him back a step. There, he found Carisi’s gaze, then deliberately stared him into silence. 

Barba said, “I regret every day that I can’t count him among my friends.”

Bent by shame, Carisi ducked his head, but covered it by nodding. He would always have his doubts about Alex Muñoz and Barba’s misplaced idolization of him. Only, he now had to accept that those feelings stood like a pillar, side-by-side with Barba’s own stalwart belief that whatever his faults, there was more in Muñoz, goodness and talent and promise besides. And somehow, those alone could stand up against the long shadow cast by his adultery and self-serving behavior. 

For as much as Barba cared for and respected Yelina, Carisi had to think Muñoz’s supposed _talent_ and _promise_ had the reach of mountain peaks. 

“His wedding. Yelina’s wedding,” Carisi knew he ought to close his mouth to the matter, but could not help himself. When Barba took off on a tear, Carisi was quick to follow. There was no keeping up with the man, otherwise. “It was her day, too. And you stood by him, like you’re standing by him now.”

 _“She’s_ standing by him.” 

“So you’re in good company,” Carisi sneered, astounded that he was getting pushback on this. “Why don’t you _commiserate_ with her, huh? Don’t you both feel a little fucked over?”

Barba stopped talking, stopped arguing and rationalizing his feelings and arranging them for public consumption. He fixed Carisi with another unwavering stare. His green eyes, once bright, held like impenetrable, lifeless stone. There had been more movement in the old photos Carisi saw, earlier. 

It was the stillness--more than anything--that unnerved Carisi and would ultimately break his resolve.

“Are you _done?”_ Barba asked tersely, then carried on down the sidewalk. 

What Carisi believed was looming wasn’t a storm, but this: a drought. 

He followed. Walking tandem with Barba had always been easy: Carisi had a long gait, but Barba was fast, assured in every step he took to match one of Carisi’s.

Carisi reached for--took, really--Barba’s hand. He held it firmly, didn’t loosen his grip when Barba felt limp as a dead fish in his own. Carisi was steadfast. 

They were hands that could palm a basketball, but didn’t waste their time. Once, when Carisi had been halfway to drunk and Barba there for some time, he’d hoisted Carisi up against him, hands spread to hold ass cheek and thigh, strength such that Carisi thought Barba could have split him open.

Carisi squeezed Barba’s hand, an offer of quiet confirmation-- _I was out of line_ \--and assurance-- _so were you_ \--and apology-- _I’m sorry._ There was heat there, as if the words they’d thrown in one another’s faces had been handled, first, rolled between open palms so as to take precise aim. Eventually, perhaps out of habit (though Carisi better liked the sound of _necessity),_ Barba squeezed in return. 

Overhead, the clouds continued to lose their shape, became ill-defined and swollen by dark rain.

-

While stood in a relatively busy section of the Red Line, crowded among tourists and young professionals alike, a goofy smile spread across Carisi’s face. He had one arm raised, elbow bent, hand on the metal beam riding the top of the car. All of his skinny figure swayed with the movement, a grace born in the New York underground. 

“Oh, wow,” he said, a first attempt after a long spell of silence. He moved his phone so that Barba could see. “Look at this. Live footage from NASA.”

Barba, who didn’t sway when he rode the subway, but kept strict and patient, only allowing his gaze to shift as he surveyed those gathered on the same trip, glanced not at the phone, but at Carisi. Carisi was quiet, rapt, and that in turn drew Barba in. 

On the glossy smartphone, livestreaming video played out from the International Space Station. It showed the earth slowly rotating, and a satellite pitched into space hanging closer still to the station’s camera. The cloud cover made the locations almost imperceptible, but there was always ocean to see, the cut of a coastline, the jut of mountains. 

Barba didn’t like it. He didn’t like the implication that, should a meteor come hurtling towards earth, he was now in a position to see it happen in real time. If such was his fate, he didn’t want to know. 

Cowardice, maybe, explained it. Or the necessary obfuscation of that inevitable end that allowed him and every other normal human being to lead a life. Barba supposed he was capable of both. It was a recent discovery.

So he glanced upwards and sideways to again see the look on Carisi’s face, and was taken by the sheer awe that smoothed his features, brightened his eyes. Carisi was transfixed, bespotted with the one thing that was _every_ thing. 

What took Barba--and dried his mouth and clenched his hand and stopped his heart--was that the expression wasn’t new. Carisi had bestowed that same awe unto Barba, over dinner, in bed, in a courtroom, and generally such to the extent that Carisi’s desire to be open about their relationship seemed--at times--wholly laughable. The look on his face wasn’t silent; it was its own rebel yell. 

_Oh,_ Barba thought. And _Well._

_Oh, well._

Barba knew he didn’t need the excuse to stand too close to Carisi, but if ever he did, this wasn’t what he’d have chosen for himself. But he sank against Carisi and, for the six stops between Harvard Square and downtown Boston, was content to watch the world spin.

-

It was raining in great cascading waves over the city. They darted into a convenience store for an umbrella, which they then used to venture towards a liquor store, buy scotch and a six pack, before finally returning to the hotel, stripping off their wet clothes, and falling into bed. 

Barba lingered in the buff, luxuriating before the opened door to the balcony where the warm and cold of the rain breathed in great gasps over all of Boston. The sky looked particularly eerie over the harbor, which under the rain had turned so dark and roiled that Barba could not readily determine the beginning or end to either, were it not for the ships dotting that fine line. 

They could close the door later, let the air conditioning modulate the room, and be back to their utmost pristine proceedings in due time. It was a neat trick, this life. Barba thought about France and Prague and Morocco, and every subsequent opportunity they could have to open windows and let the world in after they’d mussed the sheets.

He indulged too long.

Just as goodwill swelled in him, the moment was broken, and Barba burst. 

They didn’t have glass cups, only plastic. The glass ones hadn’t been replaced. Five minutes ago, it had bothered Barba enough that he said so, and Carisi had kissed him, laughing, before rolling over in bed and making a call to the front desk. 

Now, on a tray and accompanied by complimentary champagne and a bellboy, the two glasses arrived. Carisi practically swung the door off its hinges to retrieve them, and in the moment also found cause to strike up a conversation with the employee, who only expected a tip, maybe, and not a verbal deluge and an unintentional peep show. 

Barba, who had been comfortably lounging on the bed, naked save for his boxer briefs--which he’d only _just_ tugged back into place--felt a sudden shock of betrayal for being seen in a state of relaxation. 

_No,_ he thought. Not merely seen. He’d been exposed. 

He covered himself with a pillow and left the bed, walking briskly--he refused to _dart_ \--towards the side of the room not visible through the doorway. Naturally, his clothes were strewn out in the opposite direction, so he stood, a pillow held to his groin and middle, waiting until such time as he wasn’t a probably public indecency case.

When the door closed, Barba made a beeline for his clothes. Embarrassed, he tugged on his shirt--still damp--and began feverishly buttoning it. He was angry at the interruption, but angrier still than he would have been, he thought, had they _not_ had a moment on the subway, had Carisi _not_ found purpose and delight in seeing the places Barba had once known, had--

“Hey, what’s wrong?” 

\--had Barba a _single moment alone_ to his own private thoughts, rather than the constant display of self Carisi, like an infant, seemed to need lest he believe himself alone in the world. Like object permanence remained a mystery to him well past the institutional wonder of peekaboo.

“You,” Barba said. Simply, even easily. 

Such was, he supposed, the appeal of hurting those closest to you. It was exceptionally easy.

“Me?” Carisi asked, his voice suddenly so small that Barba felt like searching the floor for it.

He picked up his pants instead, and tried uselessly to shake out the wrinkles before tugged them on one leg at a time. 

“You and your apparent, insatiable need to present us to strangers for--god knows what. Inspection. _Approval._ ” Barba spat the words with more venom than they merited. There was no known slight to take offense to and challenge for an apology--only Carisi’s own being, his natural inclination towards inclusion and familiarity. 

The pitch of Barba’s voice climbed as he struggled with the second leg of his pants. “Could you have opened that door any wider? I don’t think that guy got as clear a view of my _ballsack_ as he deserved.”

Carisi raised both hands so that they were level with his chest, open, and halting. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about tact. Have a little.”

Barba punctuated his comment with the draw of his zipper. He may as well have caught his thumb in the act and drawn blood, because he smelled it, surely, in the air. Carisi’s face was stricken dumb, and to Barba’s eye he looked like a child trying to suss insult from pain. 

That alone stirred Barba’s ire. It couldn’t be that Carisi was _unaware,_ that he didn’t _know._ Barba didn’t want to make smalltalk with complete strangers who could make their own assumptions; what about him suggested he was fine being seen half-naked in bed? Obtuse was an understatement. 

Now, for as little sense as their coupling made on its own merits, Barba began to doubt Carisi’s intentions. The thought cracked in his mind like a whip and Barba felt it drawn across the whole of him--tip to toe. It split him like a weak seam, and every bottled-up fear came spilling out.

“Oh, _please,_ ” he snapped. “Don’t look _hurt._ Like I’ve _hurt_ you.”

Carisi moved to set his hands on his narrow hips, but in his state, he missed. His hands skirted his sides and for lack of a plan b, he let them go limp. His retort was similarly mismanaged: “Then _don’t.”_

“Then _leave.”_

It was only by the emptied look on Carisi’s face that Barba knew he’d said it aloud. He could see himself stitching back together, and imagined the reason for his breaking was that he was too full, overstuffed with another man’s needs and desires.

Barba wet his lips, swallowed down the strange taste he found there. 

_Bloodsport,_ he thought, and said again, gently this time: “You should leave.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a melodramatic piece of shit. Thank you for indulging me, pals.

_Leave,_ Barba had told him. The order begged a response. 

Carisi begged his nerves not to fail him. 

“Where do you want me to go, exactly?” 

He spoke the words off the tip of his tongue, nothing deeper. He imagined going for something stronger and being absent a second to summon it, only to have Barba close the door on him.

Barba was quiet. The moment strung itself out between them, dilapidated, weak, a junkie of an argument. Barba fought the itch to keep feeding it. Carisi, he knew, would be willing and able to drop the matter completely. He would hear Barba’s excuses and take them for gospel.

 _I’m tired,_ Barba could say, and Carisi would smile at the non-apology. Or he could give an _actual_ apology, and Carisi would kiss him, spill all his thanks like meager savings down a wishing well. He’d happily surrender his dignity next, hand it over to Barba as a lump sum rather than having it robbed from him, piecemeal, over months.

Barba didn’t want it. He couldn’t be trusted with so precious a gift; it would suffer in his care.

The moment he thought _leave_ and didn't summarily bite his tongue until blood warmed his teeth, he knew. He was in too deep, and dragging Carisi further down. The air would grow thick with all the words he kept himself from speaking, and soon they'd surely choke on them. 

Together, which was nice. 

The moment stretched further still as Barba found he couldn’t so much as answer, let alone say the words again and force Carisi out with their abundance. 

He turned the order on himself: _Leave. Get out. Save yourself the next unforgivable deed and let it only be this. You can both survive this._

It would be just shy of kind.

Barba dragged a hand over his mouth. The rub of his palm against the short bristles of three-days growth was audible in the silence. 

He’d doubled down on the sentiment in short measure, and had quickly come to mean it. But to _say so,_ without planning or care, was a thing he saw as the result of fraying nerves and ever-loosening screws, the stuff that held him together finally giving out. Giving up. 

He’d embarrassed himself. It stood far and away behind the capital crime of harming Carisi, but dealing with it--maybe--was still within his reach. He traced the outburst backwards under mental orders that he Find Something. This much would salvage his pride in the face of a steadily breaking heart. 

Barba knew his excuse when he saw it wedged deep inside himself: a rift growing between them, greater than any other distinction and unique in its ability to expand and constrict with time. It could be a crack in the sidewalk or a chasm deep enough to part countries, worlds.

It had a name: presumption. Specifically, his own. Specifically, this: that what had long kept him content could make someone else _happy._ He was fashioning a minimalist picture when Carisi wanted splendor. He served a single olive when Carisi was hungry for a feast. He wanted a love loose enough that he could turn away from it and wade unsupervised into dark places, which wasn't so much a love at all, and none besides what Carisi would allow. 

Barba wanted all these things only and up to the point at which he could ruin them. 

_I've had enough,_ he thought, looking upon Carisi--the pinched face stood under mussed hair, the long limbs spilling from short sleeves and boxershorts--like this was the last he'd see of all mankind. _If I have any more, I'll burst._

Carisi had his own forward misgivings: he believed in the best possible outcome for himself and for others, and in turn possessed an indelible optimism that existed in stark contrast to all that he’d seen. He saw the worst of reality, and yet at his golden core was able to deny it. Perhaps that was a job requirement: to envision justice and crime as battling forces in some cosmic war. Only the bright-eyed optimist would carry on through the muck and think any one case could tip the scales. 

He was struck dumb with it; how else could he have made as many transfers as he had without the unmistakable belief that one of them would--eventually--work out? With only the thin veneer of a gruff exterior to shield him--itself a messy shellac, full of cracks, always peeling--he went merrily into precinct after precinct, toting _cannolis,_ having _opinions._ Anyone else would have given up, anyone else would have become permanently burned by the experience, not rendered still more confident that his next posting would be _the_ posting. 

That outlook must be innate, Barba thought, because he’d never known Carisi to function without it. He saw the promise of belonging in every smile thrown his way, every kiss given without prompting. Barba had often thought of him as eager, but one aspect soared above all: Carisi was a hopeful lover. Everything was getting better all the time. 

Seconds had passed. Barba took in a breath. 

_Hope,_ he thought, and knew instantly all the means to crush it. 

He said, “It’s deeply unprofessional that we are dating at all.”

Carisi remained watchful and still. “Is there a but to that?” 

The way he was stood, tipped forward, poised to receive Barba, eager to forgive, made Barba draw flesh between his teeth--cheek and tongue alike--and hold. It was like trying to rein in the rise of the sun and spill of the tide; it was against his very nature to allow Carisi the last word.

When no response came, Carisi jumped to his own defense: “You don’t have to snap at me. I’m not a child. If there’s something--” he dreaded even forming the words in his mouth, but pressed on, “-- _wrong,_ something I can fix, you can tell me. And I will listen. But you can't just keep it to yourself and then blow up about it. You have to tell me.” 

Barba forced his hands into his pockets, simulating an end to the discussion even as Carisi got his first words in. He might as well have drawn them into fists and readied a swing.

“I can be professional,” Carisi said, now a plea. And in one fell swoop, coupled with an anxious swallow to wet his throat and a look of total determination, Carisi offered his surrender: “I can be quiet.”

“You can’t, though,” Barba said, faster and harsher than intended. He wanted only to deny the point’s premise, but in doing so he refuted Carisi’s ability even to suggest such a thing. 

“Yes I can,” Carisi argued, at which point Barba served him a flat look, as if to have been answered on all accounts: immature, impassioned, loud. 

He said so, gently, hoping that much would sell Carisi on the idea that Barba wasn’t actively trying to insult him. Carisi wasn't fooled. 

“Bullshit.”

“You did drag me to a baseball game,” Barba pointed out, and in the face of Carisi’s refusal to hear the truths he was presented with, much less accept the escape route he'd cleared for them both to travel towards opposite greener pastures, he snapped. His temper, already frayed, caught fire. 

“I hate that I have to explain this to you. Like it isn't obvious, like you don't _see it.”_

“See _what?_ That you're neurotic as hell? That you’d sooner be right than be happy?”

The blowback was comparably tame and wholly expected. And yet, a single terse word out of Carisi's mouth met Barba like the first devastating wave of a tsunami. Everything that built him up was stripped away: the bite of his words, the strength of his convictions, his tirelessness. His next line came out mumbled, an automation played on a decades-old system. Barba could practically hear the static layered in and around the excuse, for as often as he rolled it out, dusted it off, and pressed play. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing here. Your time, mine--this has been a colossal waste. For that, I sincerely apologize.”

He said this much, at least, to himself, with his gaze set on the floor of a Boston hotel room.

The look on Carisi's face quickly turned, changing from one of fearful uncertainty to wholesale disbelief. “This is crazy. You're being crazy right now. If crazy went to school for philosophy, that'd be you. Because your face is all red and you’re not making any fucking _sense.”_

Carisi wet his lips, swallowed, then wet his lips again. Still, his next words came out as a croak: “Can we talk about this?”

He had schooled the defeat from his voice so much so that his words were stripped bare of any dressing. But the ordering was there, a damning reflection of his loss. Barba’s was a hollow victory.

“What else is there to say? We are not a good fit.” Barba trotted out the sentiment like a ceremonial guard: all dressed up, weapons emptied, their titles wholly honorific. “And we’re not taking a vote. I don't need your consensus.”

Carisi was stung by the implication, and because there were worlds of difference between parting ways and severing _heads_ along with ties, he challenged, “You can't just choose _this_ for me.”

“Someone has to,” Barba shot back, and therein found another means of assault. “You wanted to be a priest--I’m not touching that one, by the way--and then a cop and a detective and now a _lawyer_ and--did I miss something? Did you take tap dancing lessons at the YMCA for an afternoon and think you were destined for Broadway?” Barba flashed his teeth. It was nothing like a smile. “You need to _grow up._ Choose something.”

“You!” Carisi said, his burst of sincerity like a beam of sunlight to disrupt Barba’s gathering stormclouds. “ _You_ and my city and my job--”

“Choose something else!” Barba snapped, and found with considerable mortification that he was _shaking._ Slowly, front to back, from his gut-twisting middle to his bed-tousled hair. His hands had retreated from his pockets--god knows when--and had wrapped tight around his chest.

Carisi dropped his head and looked at the floor. His shoulders rose with the effort it took to take a breath that was so soundless, even Barba couldn’t misconstrue it for a retort. 

_Bloodsport,_ Barba thought again, and steadied himself. The term was more violent than the sum of him, and he was unfit to play. He could deal in lives in the courtroom, where crimes had to be answered for. Even for his thoughtlessness, Carisi had not wronged him. What Barba was really out to do, he realized, was perform a mercy killing.

He choked down his resolve, and wished he had a finger or two of scotch to smooth its descent. Without it, he felt every breath travel up and down his esophagus like a railway spike, turning and stalling as they went.

“I'm only saying, plainly, that all this? Is a choice. And for me, it's the wrong one.” 

It was half true, Barba supposed, and maybe if that much was understood, Carisi would accept the rotten parts. Love, commitment--each was a decision made again and again, every waking morning. Like selecting a tie, though made with far less planning and consideration.

It was a spine of steel that kept Barba standing upright as he watched Carisi hear and understand him. He imagined the rest of him splitting from it and curling forward, brought to his knees in cowardice. He felt grotesque. 

Carisi sank under the weight of all that he stood to lose. He tore his gaze from Barba, but didn’t send it out the window or towards the exit. It lingered on the bed, where the sheets were still thrown open, the pillows still bent with the shape of heads and elbows. It was littered with evidence, and when he looked at it, and then at Barba, Carisi saw a crime.

Confusion passed over his face, then cleared. He saw a summit’s peak and slowly made the journey: “You just… you kissed me. Not ten minutes ago, on that bed. You did that--that thing where you… where I get ahead of myself and you laugh at me, like, _in my own mouth.”_

A timid smile graced Carisi’s mouth and moved to cradle the sentiment, as though reaching for some tiny, squirming new life. Barba, upon hearing Carisi describe their intimacy with the few words it merited--the simple rendering of all that swirled inside Barba to move and upset him, to serve as his life’s cause and a second’s distraction--set his jaw and looked away. 

Carisi had gone through Barba’s storm of words and came out the other side, untouched by the debris. He saw Barba’s argument as unfocused, all over the place. He didn’t _mean_ any of this.

Carisi said, “I know when someone’s lying to me.”

He said, “I’m not worried.” 

He said, “This isn’t about me.”

He asked, “Are you okay?”

-

His skull was splitting open. 

Barba saw no other explanation for the pain and panic that charged through him like an electric shock, heightening him to a heavenly plane one second, only to leave his own self burned and ruined in the next. The end was there, centered in the side of his head, ghosting over the bridge of his nose. He felt a visceral heat in it. 

Worse than the blow--Barba assumed he hadn’t done this to himself--the rest of him unwittingly carried on. His heart kept pumping blood to the geizer. His brain told his hands to hold himself together. 

Only his words failed him, as Barba did not call for reinforcements. 

Barba was slipping through his own fingers and spilling onto the floor. He hung in the balance between death and something worse--consequence. 

He ran a hand over his mouth again. His plan--such as it was--had failed. Carisi wouldn't take the bait and fall into a nasty argument, the likes of which Barba was sure to win. 

That was how he made his living, after all.

Obfuscation, Barba decided in a rush. Soak the battlefield, muddy the terrain. Carisi would sink, eventually.

He went first to the petty argument, the one marred with deliciously heinous human flaws designed to offend. Barba tailored his voice, starting soft, feigning a gentle touch. Even as he fell apart, he’d be damned if his arguments didn’t hold together. 

“I know where this is going, okay? I’ve read this cautionary tale cover to cover. It’s like Alex--”

“Muñoz?” Carisi cut in, and made a face. “He was cheating and being careless about it. Cheap thrills.” He kept his head up, steady, asking only, “You think this is like that?”

“What I think this is--what I _know--_ ” Frustration bent his argument back, threatened to snap it in half, and Barba was forced to retrace his steps. “What Alex did was foolish and needless and stupid. He was doing great things and could have done so much more. He let his… desires get out ahead of him, ruin him.”

“I’m going to ruin you,” Carisi surmised, his tone flat. Now was hardly the time for compliments, so Carisi bit back what fast unfolded on his tongue: _Like I could. You’re a force of nature._

 _“I’m_ going to ruin me,” Barba said, and meant it. Carisi was at the forefront of his every impulse--good and bad--but there was no act Barba carried out that wasn’t ultimately of his own making. “You’re just the pitfall of choice.”

“Hey, _thanks.”_ The whole of Staten Island had suddenly joined them, their numbers licking at the backs of Carisi’s teeth like a gang ready to brawl. 

“I’m in this, too,” Carisi said, as if Barba needed any reminding. He wouldn’t be in Boston without Carisi’s input--hell, there was a case to be made that Barba wouldn’t even be _alive._

“I’m here. I want to be, I’m glad to be, I _chose it.”_ Carisi took a breath, then set his gaze like stone upon Barba, and continued for as long as he had him pinned under its weight, “If you’re telling me you think it’s ‘cause you said the word, though, you're wrong. I want to be with you. But.” His mouth twisted, snapped shut. For the barest glimpse of time, words failed him. 

He hated nothing more than finding them again. 

“I want to be with someone who wants to be happy. And--I don’t know. Maybe I can live with that person not being you. Maybe I’ll have to.” 

The thought alone made him weak, but in just speaking the sentiment aloud, Carisi wondered if he’d just as well have submitted himself for disembowelment. He felt gutted, sick in a way that was somehow removed from his body. He felt it in the air around him, a stench, something he could wade through. 

But it was enough of a thing to say, to mean in some small measure, that Barba was struck by it. The unexpected left hook thrown into the conversation left him off-balanced and dazed. Barba hadn't expected Carisi to admit what he had: an understanding that what they had was finite, but not for the reasons Barba had presented. Of all the artifices Barba had gathered and built up, Carisi pushed them aside and identified the only one that mattered. 

If they failed, it wasn’t because of any number of things Carisi might say or do. If they failed, it was because of who they were as individuals, and whose becoming they denied themselves as partners.

A small thing, really. 

“I know that, and now you know that.” Carisi swallowed a lump in his throat. He’d never said something so cruel without an end. “So, you know. Take a minute. Get your story straight.”

Barba said nothing, though no part of him believed it was the result of being cowed by Carisi’s tone. He was reexamining his plan of attack.

Carisi believed this much: Barba, who knew the right thing at every turn, who never shied from it, would not do _this._ He would not be so messy with a dismissal, if that was what he’d truly intended to make. He’d say what he meant--one argument, one cause--and then dry his hands of it. If he meant to leave Carisi--rather, for _Carisi to leave him_ \--he’d have planned and executed the act with such aplomb that they’d have exchanged smiles, nods, even an awkward hug, before parting ways. Carisi so believed this that, privately, he felt a rush of concern whenever Barba was overly sweet to him. 

_Here it comes._

And while not convinced by Barba’s argument, Carisi was undoubtedly hurt. That he was worth the effort of such a colossal takedown went largely unappreciated. The words, the rejection, the intent--all of them seared his skin and caked his lungs. He couldn’t breathe for hearing them.

He passed Barba on the way to the balcony, but did not touch him. The universe itself seemed to be on his side, as Barba could not feel the air shift between them. It was as though he’d been plucked from reality and underserved by its laws. In that moment, with Carisi’s back turned against him and an empty hotel room his only prospect, Barba felt truly lost.

He covered his face with both hands, made a dark corner in which to rest his mind, breathed deeply, then exhaled. His own hot breath raked like flames over his skin. 

“You know…” Barba started, but lost steam. Carisi didn’t even turn around to face him, and again, silence consumed them.

They caught a break in the rain. The city was bathed in a weak yellow light, though still overly pronounced for the hour. It produced a soft haze that lilted overtop the harbor waters. Barba didn’t see any of it for the simple fact that he couldn’t look beyond Carisi, who stood with his arms folded over his chest, his nervous anxiety tempered only by dread. The sun played with his hair, bringing it shades lighter as the warm-wet of the air tugged it out of place. 

Barba wanted to ask where Carisi’s selfie fixation had disappeared to, when here was an opportune moment-- _A stormy summer day? Aesthetic as hell._ \--but caught himself. If he finished what he’d started _as_ he’d started it, there would never be another kind word passed between them. Even if they returned to their respective duties in New York, all further conversation would be made to the room at large.

Carisi, who was told _no, shut up, leave_ by entire police precincts and never took any of it personally, had now heard the trifecta from Barba, and was no longer immune to its sting. Those words would carry a new weight for as long as he lived to hear them. 

An old weight, Barba supposed, kindled anew and up in flames. 

This was Julie Alderson all over again.

A week ago, the prospect made Barba laugh: shattering a young man’s heart was surely well beyond his means. It was a task tailormade for some great love--a first or a last. Barba didn’t think he’d even rank. 

He had a sudden urge to pacify the moment, to assuage Carisi’s fears that he was destined for only this: promises and betrayals, made in equal measure. Whatever prospective good it would do-- _This, what I’m doing to you right now? This horrible cycle of leading a lamb to its most intimate betrayal? Can’t last forever! Probably!_ \--was minimal, so Barba held his tongue. His unfortunate task was still set--that much, he could not abandon. The damage was done and his cause was worthy, even if speaking plainly to the issue was so far beyond him that it could have blown up in his face months ago, and he’d still not felt the heat. Barba had to make himself clear, and do so with as much honesty as he could spare, now, and with no more inventions or embellished disdain.

“It’s wrong of me to want this,” Barba said to the empty room, his apology never quite reaching Carisi. “To want this with you and of you. Your companionship and your silence. I don’t deserve both.”

“You’ve said this before,” Carisi pointed out, and thought to himself, _I’ve believed this before._

He turned, and they faced one another over the distance of the room and the balcony combined--little more than a handful of steps between them, though they could have shouted over it and still feared for the other’s deafness.

“And you never give an inch towards what I want.” Slowly, Carisi’s head began to shake in denial of his own words, like he wished to refute them even as they parted his lips. “Which makes me think you expect this to end. Always have.” 

He chose his words carefully, not yet willing to admit defeat. Nothing was yet passed; everything was still up for grabs.

“So it’s always been that I should keep quiet, ‘cause if I do tell Fin and Amanda, the turnaround is, you and me aren’t seeing each other anymore. Which means all I’ve _really_ said is that we were sleeping together. _That’s_ what you don’t want.”

Barba felt sick--again--for being seen. 

“Yes,” he admitted. 

“And _I’m_ the one who’s immature,” Carisi said, and looked hard at Barba. “You realize that makes me feel like total shit, right?”

Barba nodded, feeling all the more like shit for having imbued Carisi with more of the same. Still, he found cause to reason, “I still think a low profile is ideal, in your line of work in particular.”

“But you’re not looking out for me, you’re looking out for you.”

“Yes,” Barba admitted again. “And no. Both. You don’t want to stack the deck against yourself.”

“So don’t play me,” Carisi snarled, then seemed to retreat. He tucked his heart back up his sleeve and smoothed out the wrinkles. He wore an impassive face to suggest he wasn’t entirely gutted by Barba’s outburst and subsequent haranguing. 

“Be honest,” he implored, and figured so long as they were covering ground, they might as well go back to the start. “I’m not going to ask if you even like me. I know you do.” 

Barba felt himself quirk a pained little smile--a seemingly impossible thing, given the circumstances. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

“So cut the shit,” Carisi said. He raked both hands through his hair, pushing it back, smoothing it down, until he looked a little more put together than he felt. “And get another therapist, maybe.”

“There’s nothing's wrong with Dr. Bloom.”

“No, keep her. I mean get two.” Carisi sighed and slid his hands out of his hair, leaving them to rest, laced, on his neck. In a show of abject exhaustion, Carisi let his arms fall to his sides. “Because this? _All this?_ Is fucked up.”

Again, Barba said nothing. If ever there was a moment--a breaking point--after the fact, this would be Carisi’s. Hurt would touch embarrassment would touch anger. There was no means of sheltering from all three, and the only question now was whether Carisi surrendered to his sensitivity or his pride.

Carisi pinched the bridge of his nose, then wiped at his right eye with the pad of his thumb. An innocuous gesture by any stretch--he could be simply _tired_ or simply _aggravated._ Except he simply wasn’t. 

A warm-wet noise parted his lips and left them open. Carisi drew in a steadying breath but even that could not undercut the ache in his voice as he spoke. 

“You don’t think I’ll know it when you don’t want to be with me anymore?”

His open heart was already shot to hell, why not throw his ego on the pile, and admit that he’d considered the outcome, imagined a million different ways it could present itself? Carisi tore his attention from Barba and dropped into a patio chair. He would _not_ be leaving, Barba would _not_ win like that. 

After a moment’s consideration, Carisi leaned to his left and took the second chair by the arm, then dragged it to stand next to his. 

“Come ‘ere.”

Barba was hesitant to accept the invitation. “Forgiving me already?”

He kept his distance from prospective, and strived instead for taunting. He landed somewhere in between, a cross of unmanageably curious and dutifully morose. 

_“No.”_ Carisi rubbed a hand over his brow as if trying to make sense of Barba was an endeavor that caused him intense physical distress. “But I’m willing to make an effort.” 

Silence thundered in between them, a veritable herd of it. 

“Maybe don’t.”

Carisi stared at Barba, watched him cross the threshold between the room and the balcony, watched him sit. And in the softness of his brow and the tight pinch of his mouth, Carisi found something like hope. Barba wanted to be proven wrong. The holes in his case were there, and if he would heed to anything, reason seemed a fair bet. 

Carisi decided to encourage it. He knew that reason in the face of emotional stagnation needed something to grease the wheel, so he pushed up, out of his chair, and went to retrieve the scotch and beers from the hotel room. He brought just one glass of the two that had started this mess, and managed to pour Barba a generous helping while walking back to the balcony. 

“Drink,” Carisi said, handing off the glass and then promptly twisting off the top of a beer for himself. “Maybe you’ll start making some sense.” 

He dropped back into his patio chair, frog-legged his long limbs for space, and took a swig. 

If he looked like a dejected twenty-something, Barba supposed he only had himself to blame. Playing mind games with a romantic partner was so far below him Barba couldn’t see it for years, like the blast from a snuffed-out star.

They drank together, and in the moments their lips kissed off their respective glass and bottle, Barba imagined a swell of conversation. Perhaps it was by design that he did not say a word, and anything that crawled towards his mouth was quickly disappeared down his scotch-slickened throat. 

Carisi didn’t want Barba to talk, he wanted him to think.

The scotch warmed him. It was more and more a comfort than he cared to realize. He glanced sidelong to Carisi and thought of all the things that made him feel normal and were themselves not a vice, it was a short count.

He could narrow it down to one. 

“I’m going to let you down,” Barba murmured into his emptied glass. “Again, and worse, and consistently.”

The brush of honesty chilled him so thoroughly that he thought--briefly--maybe the rain was about to start in again. He wet his lips and watched as Carisi, silent, poured him still more scotch. 

This much, Barba let rest in the glass. It wasn’t as fine a blend as he was used to--Carisi had insisted they try the local fare--but it was serviceable, and would surely get him drunk no matter how lowly he thought of it. In the light breaking out from under the storm clouds, the amber liquid turned an unseemly dayglo yellow. 

When Barba next spoke, it was again only to himself, with wonder lifting his words into being. 

“I’m going to let you down, and you look at me like that’s impossible,” he said, and on a whim glanced to his right. Faced with reality, Barba grimaced. “You’re doing it now! Jesus.”

Carisi huffed a breath out of his nose--a poor substitute for his usual barking laugh. “Is that all?” 

“Is that all,” Barba echoed mockingly, and sipped the scotch. Sour-faced, he answered, “It is, in all likelihood, my particular end. Yours, rather.” 

“What do you mean?” Carisi asked, and topped Barba off again. He knew how best to get a genuine answer, and wasn’t going to be subtle about it. 

“This?” Barba gestured between them with the glass, nearly spilling. “Is already over. If not now then next week, when you realize I shouldn’t be forgiven again. Twice is a pattern, you know.” He lifted the glass, then lowered it again. “I’ve dragged you out here to do it. Best not to shit where I eat.”

Carisi frowned. 

“You _literally_ heard me explain that exact concern, remember? And we did this instead. You didn’t steal my idea.” His face opened with the slow happenings of an uneasy smile. It was nothing Carisi could wholly commit to, but it ghosted across his features enough so as to claim a kind of supernatural presence. The reality was waiting on just the other side of their conversation, and Barba was welcome to join him there. 

“I know you like to think otherwise, but you’re not that cold.” Carisi took another swig from the lip of his beer and said, “Explain it to me.”

He knew what he was asking was, in many ways, impossible. He wouldn’t get Barba to admit to his fears in one move, not when Barba was a practiced hand at shortcutting his fears as his failures. He’d stall, misdirect, and make sacrifices, first. 

When Barba wouldn’t lower himself to that place, Carisi nodded all the same, as though he’d heard something. He knew what had unseated Barba from his steely core. He knew why the man felt toppled and, in his upset, chose to lash out.

“I think about it too,” Carisi said. “I think, what if we hadn't gotten there in time? What if they were twice as insane as you were smart?” He and Barba never talked about the events of some months ago. To do so would disrupt the pleasing little narrative Barba liked to live: that, with the trial and his triumphant return to the courtroom, he’d conquered it. 

Except--every moment spent with Carisi was a reminder of all that had happened, because all of it _had to happen,_ to see the younger man into his life. This much, Barba knew. Intellectually, he could even appreciate the irony. 

But it terrified him. 

Carisi continued, oblivious, “What if I'd just taken you home? And none of it happened, and they messed up some other way, and we got ‘em, and you didn't have to feel like you do?”

“What if we were happy,” Barba added quietly. Another impossibility, no matter how fiercely they imagined it.

“We are, though. Sometimes.” 

Then, like happiness alone was the question that kept Carisi up at night, the depths of which he’d searched deeper than for any answers from God or explanation for the cruelty he saw in the world, Carisi begged: “Please tell me you are _sometimes_ happy.”

He sounded so small. Barba could have cried, knowing he had lessened this man or made him feel any inch a failure.

With some difficulty, Barba nodded. The act seemed to incite a riot inside his own cells, and well throughout his bones, blood, and muscle, he wanted to refuse this truth and deny its implications. Only some small part of him believed it, and on that part, he took a chance.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course. I have you to thank for that.”

Carisi looked at Barba for a long, steady moment. Barba felt as though he was being scrutinized, and did not lament the moment Carisi turned away to stare, instead, towards the harbor where there was still rain falling far out above the darkened waters. Though just a narrow band of the storm that had rumbled over Boston, it threw the horizon into question and stifled the view. Carisi saw only darkness, though he knew there was light beyond it.

“What happened to you--”

“It’s not that,” Barba lied. His face felt hot. “Really. That was months ago. I’m over that. Come on.” He laughed weakly, tried to play it off: “This is a different mental breakdown. Wholly unrelated.” 

Carisi was unmoved by the assurances. He saw Barba now, despondence chasing fast on the heels of his anger, and supposed he’d never seen him so clearly. Spread eagle in bed, face lax with pleasure, he’d still been a mystery. He was more the sum of his parts--his confidence in the courtroom, his determination over piles of work and emptied cup of coffee, and to finish him off, _this:_ his hangups and anxieties, the parts of him that he could go for years without acknowledging. When he did--when he was forced to--they rose up and consumed him.

Carisi pressed, “What happened doesn’t just go away. It’s probably worse for you now, because there's nothing to do but think about it. No more _ifs_ and _whens,_ but all the _hows_ and _whys._ ” 

Both men wished Carisi knew these things another way, but the fact was clear: he was studied in both sensitivity training and experience. This was how he understood people now, and Barba by extension. He saw their most intimate trials and deeply buried pain, and tried to resolve both with a gentle touch. 

Barba had heard him take the same tone with victims. It wasn’t disingenuous because it was applied to him, just unwanted.

“But you’re misremembering, okay? You weren’t alone in that moment. And you’re not alone now.” Carisi sighed and closed his eyes for a brief respite. “The worst didn’t happen. It wasn’t meant to.” 

Absently, Carisi’s thumb had taken to scratching at the label on his beer. Samuel Adams, because he couldn’t _not_ when it was brewed just a few miles outside of the city. The scrape of his nail against the plastic of the label and the glass of the bottle was like another part to their conversation, and Barba waited until it had subsided before speaking his piece.

“I want to be. Alone. If ever it does happen.”

It was a sorry excuse for his behavior, he knew, but Barba was surprised when it didn’t sound that way. 

Voice shaking, he relented: “I feel like it happened.” 

It reminded Carisi of a recording of his favorite author’s final book. A segment was played on npr and Carisi remembered the words falling apart as they were spoken, and feeling sickened, too, that a voice known best to him as booming and charismatic could be rendered so distant and small. 

Walter Briggs had his age and his illnesses to answer for his crumbling stature; Barba was at his peak. It was unnatural to hear a man so young waver in a thing so innate as his own voice, his very being.

“I feel like I'll wake up next to you, aware for just a moment that I'm dead, and the last thing I'll ever know is your pain. I want to get it over with, already.”

There was no bitterness in Barba’s words, an absence that only served to concern Carisi further. He should be angry with this display, not resigned to it. The Barba he knew would deny what wasn’t ideal until it was stricken from his being. Underserved, undereducated? _Fuck that._ Assistant District Attorney, an esteemed graduate of Harvard Law School.

For all that was wrong about Barba’s voice, Carisi heard his excuses for what they were: a fear of dying wrapped up in the terror of living. 

He’d faced down death in his home, and still it followed him. His first response had been thoughtful and planned: he’d poured himself into his work until there was more of him there than filling his suits. When that failed to sate his terror that he was little more than a walking spectre, Barba wanted time away from the City and its familiar ills. 

But there was no escaping himself, as he was loathe to discover. Anger and anxiety consumed him, turned his insides toxic, rendered him unfit, unstable. He was incendiary. 

Barba couldn’t spare himself from the blast, but he could limit the damage. 

_Altruism,_ Carisi thought in a huff. Who would’ve guessed?

He wanted to scold Barba past his _man alone_ bullshit, to force him to see reason, but schooled himself. He remembered how, in times of profound doubt, reason never worked for him, either. He’d needed faith.

For the man who had set out with the ill-minded plan to hurt him, Carisi found empathy. He found it in stirring abundance. 

Carisi abandoned his chair to kneel before Barba. The gesture was seemingly a surprise for both men, though only Barba let his surprise show in being caught wide-eyed, mouth agape. He snapped the latter shut, swallowed hard. 

Although Carisi had fit himself between Barba’s long legs, there wasn’t a whiff of sexuality to the deed. Carisi didn’t bend for him; they bent towards each other. Instead, the move was domineering and assured. 

With his hands on Barba’s heavy forearms, Carisi had effectively boxed him in.

“Living when you don't think you're owed something you got--your family’s love, God’s love, a _life._ It's hard. Maybe the hardest thing ever. But it didn’t happen. Okay? You know that. The next step is believing it.” Carisi set his gaze so that Barba had to meet it. “You are selfish, though. I'll give you that. You want all this pain for yourself, like you don't think people can carry some of the weight.”

“I will set you aside. I will. I always do.”

His words carried a finality Carisi identified best with church, where the sacred sounds of Biblical texts were known and murmured by all. So inherently true, these words were written on hearts and breathed into the songs of the devoted. 

Barba only believed in his own worst tendencies. 

“Maybe,” Carisi allowed, and brushed his thumbs over the soft skin of Barba’s arm, just south of the crooks of his elbows. “Or maybe that's another thing you're misremembering. You're better than you think. I know what it is to tell yourself otherwise, but. You gotta know--you're good. You're so good.”

Carisi sank back, drew his hands down the entire length of Barba’s arms, stood, and took a step away. He watched as Barba fought the twisting expression on his own face, then surrender to it. His lips parted--pink from the pressure he’d needed to keep them closed--and he sighed, then coughed, wet and hollow. 

“That’s--” Barba, more choked up than he would care to admit, struggled to speak. “Kind. Of you to say.” 

Carisi gave a little shake of his head. He wasn’t being kind.

He leaned against the spread of balcony ahead of Barba and watched the storm-stricken air dampen Barba’s white shirt, render it slightly translucent over his shoulders, and sink it close to his skin. The previous two day’s worth of sun had warmed over Barba’s face, browned his cheeks and brow. It was a healthy exterior to his crumbling insides. 

Carisi asked again, “Are you okay?”

-

Barba, whose gaze was still rooted to the spot where Carisi had lowered himself, wanted desperately to apologize. 

More than that, he wanted to have never positioned himself so as to have so grievously wronged Carisi in the first place. He imagined being at home, dismissing the notion of a weekend getaway altogether and using the time instead to busy himself with work. He imagined Carisi as a welcome distraction, trying to be quiet somewhere with a book, but disjointedly humming an old Cuban tune he’d heard weeks before, a choice sample spinning lazily on Barba’s record player.

Barba would hum back, correcting him. He wouldn’t get any work done.

He wanted the life they had before he’d invited this mistake. Barba couldn’t exist without distractions, and went to pieces when they’d gone. He’d sooner turn on his company and be alone than allow for the unseemly prospect of being seen with all of his shortcomings on display.

And now, Carisi knew this. 

“Yeah,” Carisi said, sensing Barba’s train of thought like a shift in the air. 

“I’m a detective first,” he reminded him. Then, his only retaliation: “Pretty weak tactics, there, Counselor.” 

Barba pinched his eyes closed and joined them with a grimace. He folded forwarded into a brace of his own hands. His fingertips grazed the side of his head, the place where there wasn’t so much as a scar. Still, he felt maimed. He caught himself, dropped his hands uselessly into his lap, and shook his head. Laughed.

“I just realized it’s Saturday. That was, I think, a Pavlovian therapy session.” 

“Hope I didn't undo any… progress.”

“Such that it is.” 

Carisi made a face and drained his beer. _No comment._

Barba sucked down another mouthful of scotch and pushed up from his chair. He carried himself with some uncertainty, and didn’t press his luck joining Carisi by the balcony’s edge. So he stood, chin dropped slightly towards his chest, shoulders stiff, all around nestled close to his drink.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and thought it sounded menial and useless. “I really do like you. Contrary to all sense and reason.”

“The perfect crime.”

Carisi was still hurt. Even his jokes were bruised.

“And I care about you,” Barba insisted. “A sentiment you could very reasonably deny as I have not endeavored to show it.”

Carisi shifted on his feet, then cocked his head as if there was something rattling around inside of him that he was desperate to shake loose. 

“Can I tell you something?” He felt foolish even asking, which only served to inspire more needless explanation: “Sincerely. Like, from the bottom of my heart over here.”

“I shudder to think,” Barba said. Humor still tasted unwelcome in his mouth, like he’d bitten too much into a ripe fruit. He shrugged _and_ nodded, an offbeat effort that televised all his nervous energy. It seemed they had come to an understanding, that Carisi had led them both onto some high hilltop, a place where his moral superiority flowered in abundance. 

“Okay.”

“Maybe you don’t remember, but the Bodecker case…”

It was only a single example in his swell of victories, but not a case willfully forgotten. It accounted for one of his life sentence verdicts, after all. 

“I remember it. I prosecuted it.”

The victims were a young brother and sister duo who had been pimped out by their own parents, abused for months, and later found discarded in an adjacent apartment building. Barba only handled police reports and photographs, and didn’t speak to the victims until the case was poised for trial. By that time, the children were back from the brink of starvation, clothed, and able to speak in bouts of more than two words. Barba remembered an offhand comment from Benson after they’d spent an afternoon prepping the two for trial, that she’d been astounded by their progress.

Barba, who felt the hair stand at the back of his neck whenever their dull eyes trained on him as they spoke with absolutely no feeling towards what had been done to them, had to bite his tongue to keep from asking, _Seriously?_

“Do you remember what you did for me, after?”

Barba frowned, remembering that none of the squad felt like drinks, afterwards. Neither had Barba. They’d won the case, had the parents locked away even after turning over a _buyers list_ a mile long, but the children were now in foster care, a precarious limbo for any child, much less the abused. Nothing felt worthy of celebrating.

Carisi and Barba had gone to Barba’s apartment--together, instead of simply meeting there. 

“We laid in bed for a while,” Barba tried, and felt useless saying so. Surely Carisi wanted specifics.

“You held me for four hours.” 

It sounded like scripture when Carisi said it--another otherworldly truth to which Barba, ever the skeptic, could never ascribe himself. Sensing this, Carisi smiled sweetly. “It’s okay you didn’t mark the time. I think you’d do that for me for… however long it took.” 

Carisi dropped his head, sighed. He reconciled what he felt now with what he’d known for months. 

“When I tell you you’re good, you know, that’s what I mean. You’re so good.” 

Carisi thought back to how this started: what triggered Barba’s outburst, what problem required their genuine attention. _Honesty,_ but more than that. Faith in people. That was what Barba lacked, at his core, and it was disconcerting.

“That’s why I want us to be us, you know? In front of people. Among people.”

Coming off Barba’s admission that he’d sooner die alone than drag another participant into the coliseum, Carisi’s reasoning was now grounded and sound in comparison. 

“I want… to want the same things as you.”

His peace of mind invaded, brutalized in his own home, and hounded by those very people meant to protect the public--it was of little surprise that Barba should want to cling to the last means of personal protection he could fathom. Being quiet about his and Carisi's involvement, managing--indeed, _limiting_ \--its knowledge was his only recourse. He didn't want that pulled out from under him. But he would consider surrendering it. 

He said this, mumbled and broken, and felt empty for it. 

Carisi listened, sympathetic but unmoved from his own position. “There’s safety in numbers.”

“Are you suggesting we join a gay cabal?”

“I'm saying, this is tough. So we don't do it alone.”

It was the only way Carisi could think to exist without learning to despise himself. Nevermind the questionable ethics of dating an older male colleague, if he stayed quiet, he’d have the teeth-sucking stink of shame at his throat, slathered like cheap cologne. 

Barba could see it all unfold before him: despite the advancements made in his career and disposition since joining SVU, once confronted with derision, Carisi would fall back on known responses. He’d step into the proverbial shit, and when the faces turned to blame him for the blameless act of being his whole self, he’d confront them with his customary brashness. Carisi didn’t have the sense of self-preservation it took to be out in their world. Carisi didn’t _know--_

Barba stopped himself. It was becoming far too easy to access these doubts. He took a breath, recalculated. 

It was a low estimation of Carisi’s character, first of all. And Barba was ashamed for imagining that Carisi would face those trials alone. 

_Okay,_ he thought, and heard himself say it. _Okay._

It would be a challenge. Barba had to remind himself there’d been a time when he didn’t shrink from those.

“Just… see what you stand to lose. And accept the possibility of living without those things. The respect of your colleagues, maybe some friends, maybe some family.” 

“It won’t be like that.”

“Because you’re so special?” Barba couldn’t stop himself, and threw back another mouthful of scotch to chase the venom dripping from his lips.

“Because my colleagues are my friends, and you know them,” Carisi said plainly. “I know what you’re talking about, okay? I’ve seen guys in other precincts get shit for it, transfer out. If it’s not okay at SVU, I’m shit out of luck.” A half-smile forged itself across his features, and for a moment the prospect of being rooted out of his community and career did not concern him. “That’s about all the boroughs, anyway. If it came to it, I guess I’d have to be a lawyer.”

Carisi’s smile only widened when met with Barba’s stunned silence. “I _have_ thought about this. And that’s what I’m willing to give up, if shit went so far south that I couldn’t see the sun for lookin’ up, you know?” 

Barba, still quiet, considered what it was Carisi was saying. He nodded along, the gesture an absent affectation. 

Carisi spelled it out for him, leaving no room for error: “‘Cause that’s my list. You. My city. My job. In that order. I can get another job, help people some other way.”

Slowly but surely, Barba’s nodding turned to a shake of his head, wide and prolonged. He understood what Carisi had said, but could not fathom its truth. It seemed too great a thing--sacrifice. Barba’s mother always used to tell him the funny thing about sacrifice was, it skipped a generation. 

Suddenly, Barba was invigorated. With a decision in mind--and contingencies besides--he’d found stability where none had ever existed. The ground beneath his feet, once fractured and uneven, came together into tiled perfection. They would be out, open. Perhaps it would do nothing to make Barba any happier, and perhaps Carisi would come to regret it, but it would be a choice of their making. There was something to that, both old-world and new. 

This, after he’d told Carisi to leave. 

“How are we still talking,” he asked, quietly mystified. “How is this not over?”

Carisi shrugged, both boney shoulders rising towards his ears. In one light, it was a display of childish ineptitude. In another, Barba couldn’t have agreed more.

“I don’t think either of us want it to be.”

Like the wind was at his back, Barba surged forward. He pressed his drink into Carisi’s empty hand, and his own looseness with the item made Carisi all the more eager to take it. The thing would have fallen and shattered, surely, for as little mind Barba paid it. 

His hands now freed, Barba filled them with the soft skin and elegant dips of Carisi’s cheeks. The touch warmed his palms and made Barba feel like a gatekeeper, the sole presence between the world and something too precious for it. His fingertips lost themselves to disheveled blond hair and the open air coursing through it. He smoothed a thumb over pink lips and thought he was caressing grace itself.

 _Bloodsport,_ Barba thought once more before banishing the concept from his mind. _With this face? Never._

He kissed the corner of Carisi’s mouth--he did not want to presume, but part of him couldn’t help himself--and brushed a trail of soundless apologies down into the crook of Carisi’s neck, a favorite hiding place. Carisi bent slightly to greet him. Barba let his hands sink to Carisi’s sides and brace his narrow hips. When Carisi sighed, Barba breathed deep.

“I’m sorry,” Barba said, and believed Carisi knew all the reasons why: for saying hurtful things. For meaning some of them. For being difficult. 

For having changed.

Carisi nodded. He did know. Barba continued to hold him, the embrace tightening and loosening in turns, like the movements of a heartbeat. He felt wired, off-kilter, like he’d dodged another bullet. Only now--only _this time_ \--he knew what he’d won, and was glad.

“You’re not an incompetent infant.”

“You didn’t call me one.”

“Well. You’re not.”

-

They ordered room service, and this time received their items without incident. A hot meal as the night began to cool sounded ideal. When they ate, it felt nothing short of imperative.

Feeling emptied for having aired their concerns and doubts, they sated themselves and their appetites with red meat, flaky fish, and still more alcohol. They were warmed from the inside out. Conversation became intermittent between bites of their respective meals, and murmured awe as the rain intensified over the harbor, throwing distant cracks of lightning into open water. The bright white flashes and the echoed rumble carried on like a show or, at the very least, a disaster comparable to their own. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Barba had said it a half-dozen times, now. Once met by his lips, he couldn’t temper himself. There were things he’d said that should not be so readily cast aside, and he couldn’t stand for being forgiven. It was something, Barba supposed, he’d have for therapy in the coming week: He couldn’t stand to accept the gift because he knew he’d surely never it it, himself. Carisi’s generosity was an indictment of Barba’s own callousness. 

Barba was inexplicably pleased with his interpretation of events. It was like coming to class with his homework done.

“Raf, stop. It’s unnatural.” Carisi raised his third beer like Barba’s apology tour was a toast he was trying to hurry along. “I believe you.”

Barba sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the sky threatening to burst. “I will never get used to you calling me that. _Raf._ Like we’re kids.” 

“You want I should stick with ‘Counselor,’ Counselor?”

“I do so enjoy the ego trip,” Barba said, and then added in his deepest, scotch-soaked voice, _“Detective.”_

Carisi made a noise.

For the life of him--and for thousands of subsequent lives, though Barba didn’t believe in that sort of thing--Barba could not describe, replicate, or imitate that sound within the barest shadow of its originality. It was both percussion and horn, a veritable orchestra of sound that rendered Barba mute in response. 

Carisi began to laugh at himself, and Barba followed suit, his more of a hum pressed against his pursed lips. 

Carisi was driven giddy by it all, though his several beers and hearty helping of Barba’s scotch could be accountable, Carisi himself chose to believe it was Barba, and Boston, and the thrill of holding out for what he wanted--for once--and getting it. If he wasn't half-certain he'd fall ass-over-teakettle for it, he would have stood up and cheered. 

“You’ve got a really expressive… mouth.”

“Thank you,” Barba said, feeling dizzily drunk on the bright smile that had spread over Carisi’s face. Carisi raised his index finger to point, but prodded Barba in the cheek instead.

“It’s _winking.”_

Barba sputtered out an _atrocious_ giggle before corralling himself towards a calm befitting his character. He collected his glass and Carisi’s beer and set them on the ground at their feet.

“That's quite. Enough. Of that,” he said primly, though one look at Carisi had him battling to keep the smile off his face again. “Time to stop drinking. _Stop.”_

They continued to lounge on the small balcony attached to their room, watching the city’s sky recover from the day. When the flattened grey clouds turned fat and swollen as the storm gathered again, they pulled their chairs partway into the room, and left their feet out to feel the rain. 

Barba rolled up his pants legs while Carisi shimmied out of his entirely, and threw them back into the room. 

To sober themselves, Barba asked about past relationships.

“Any bad ones?” Barba inquired, never one for playing coy with his line of questioning. “I’d like to know what else I can get away with.”

Carisi rolled his eyes at that, but his answer did not arrive so flippantly. 

“Um. Bad because of… what I brought into them, maybe. But never--no. You know? I liked those girls. All of them. Real nice.” He seemed nervous with the idea, like he knew it was wrong but that there was eminence to it. He could stay king of his own life if he only admitted those failures, and not the truth behind them. 

Carisi thought of Barba and what he’d forced the man to confront. Barba was in the ocean, flailing, and Carisi was directing him from the shallows of a kiddie pool. 

“I think I’m gay.”

Barba had expected it. The practiced way Carisi never said he wasn’t, coupled with the nameless girls he trotted out like they were pinned to a clothesline, pristine and ready for inspection. And perhaps most damningly, the way Carisi never lent himself to the argument that he could just as well announce himself--no need to name-check Barba. 

_(No,_ Carisi would have argued, if asked. It always had to be Barba. He needed that abiding body of proof.)

“Hey. That’s--good. Good for you.” Barba curled an arm around the back of both their chairs and let his hand rest at the base of Carisi’s neck, which sloped forward to follow his downcast gaze. Barba ducked his own head in an attempt to find Carisi's eye, and make him smile. “I didn’t pack confetti.”

Carisi didn't smile. 

“Can--” he wet his lips in anticipation for his request. He wanted it to go smoothly, without a hint of obstacle. But he'd already got the wording wrong, and was forced to revise: _“I want_ to prove it.”

“You’ve had me fooled,” Barba said, his humor restrained and gentle. There was a glint of determination in Carisi’s eye that Barba heeded like a warning.

“You know what I mean.”

Barba removed his hand from Carisi’s neck. The skin there suddenly felt dense as well as hot. Barba had visions of falling in. 

“It’s not a zero-sum game,” Barba said. “Nor am I holding court, here. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Carisi was already nodding aggressively as Barba spoke. Care, communication, consent--he knew all of that. He’d googled and deleted his internet history in stirring amounts. 

_How to ask your boyfriend for sex._

_How to ask your bisexual boyfriend for “gay sex.”_

_How to “gay sex” -blowjobs -handjobs_

“I get it. I know. But--can we? Have sex? The way we haven’t done?” Carisi waited a beat, then specified: “Anal penetration?”

“I made that mental leap myself, thank you,” Barba said, his voice tight. He fumbled for the drink he’d set on the ground, then collected it as well as a bottle of water. “I’m going to finish my scotch. Why don’t you drink… all of this water. Think on it a minute.” 

He shot Carisi a knowing look. This was fast turnaround, considering the broader conversation that had preceded it. Carisi skipped the studied glances and took one sip of water before hurtling back into his cause.

“I’ve thought about it a lot. I’ve thought about why you’ve never asked. I’ve thought about how you have condoms and lube and a _dildo_ the size of a _wiffle bat_ in your bedside table gathering _dust.”_

Carisi’s distress was palpable--as present as the rain coming down in sheets before them--but Barba couldn’t will himself not to crack a smile.

“If it’s dusty, please throw it away.” Barba bit his lip, but his bemusement shone through--glaring, bright. “As a rule. If it’s dusty, don’t put it in your ass.”

Carisi heaved a ragged sigh. The air parting his lips was heady, wanting, and _tired._

“Don’t you want to? With me?”

 _Don’t be stupid,_ Barba thought, but felt a sideways smile carry him well into the next moments. He couldn’t think twice on it; Carisi deserved his honest answer. 

All the same, Barba had to polish off his scotch before he breathed a word into the kindling. 

“There’s this--you get a look of panic. On your face. When you aren’t sure what it is I’m about to do,” Barba’s gaze went to their unmade bed and back. “It’s like cornering an animal.” 

“I don’t mean to look panicked,” Carisi said. His quickness with a response told Barba he knew he’d betrayed himself in bed, though he’d hoped it wasn’t so obvious. 

“I don’t mean to have my doubts, but. Here we are.” 

Barba watched as Carisi dutifully finished the bottle of water.

“What are you scared of, exactly?”

“Being with you doesn’t scare me,” Carisi insisted--another quickly rendered sentiment composed of nothing less than absolute truth. “There’s just, uh, no going back.”

Barba didn’t mean to-- _really,_ he didn’t--but he laughed. Loud and full-bellied. It broke through the room like another stormcloud, and when he came away from it, his relief was awash in a wave of apologies.

“Sorry. _I’m sorry._ Just. You make it sound like it’s going in there forever.”

Carisi went pink-cheeked in annoyance. “It’s not like I haven’t--”

“Experimented?” Barba asked with a knowing smirk. “Did my invitation get lost in the mail? I’m beside myself.” 

“Oh, is that what happens with the dildo?” 

Barba’s expression twisted in appreciation for the smart aleck remark. “It’s not that big,” he huffed. “I don’t think. What’s a wiffle bat, for scale?”

Barba started to measure out prospective lengths and widths with his hands, but was stolen away from his task with a taste of Carisi, who had leaned over his chair and invited their mouths to meet. 

He was soft and warm, always opening, ever the invitation. Barba melded into him, swallowing up whatever was there to take.

Carisi brought a hand into play, first to cup Barba’s cheek, but changing course after deciding now was not the time for chivalry. He sank his hand like a U-boat towards Barba’s middle, and from there Barba’s groin. He made contact.

In surprise, Barba bit Carisi’s lip, but quickly released it and hummed a single note, like laughter distilled into a tune. 

How could a man do that?

Make music with his own self?

Carisi thought about how Barba was rough with himself, how Carisi was always instructed harder, harder, _faster,_ and yet Barba always looked half-full, never emptied. Never entirely as absent from himself as he wished. That was the job of a partner, after all--to spend his body like a fortune. 

Carisi worried about how satisfying that itch would feel for _him._ He wanted to agree to all of it, everything Barba needed, everything he could possibly want. What he’d been afraid of, maybe, was that the challenge of making love did not rest upon his intentions or his desires--however strong they may be--but instead, his tangible body.

He broke away from Barba, saw a flash of that hunger bare itself like teeth, and decided in that moment to feed his whole self to it.

“I want to,” Carisi repeated. “And I guess I should--um. It’ll be me getting. Yeah.”

“You sound less-than-enthused about the prospect,” Barba murmured, his face still close to Carisi’s as if it couldn’t stand the departure. His gaze studied the line of consternation forged between Carisi’s bright blue eyes. He read well into it, a scholar.

“I’m hardly an ideologue, here,” Barba said. “I’m open to ideas.” A wide, sly grin built itself into being, was quickly broken by a flash of pink tongue, and finally schooled into submission. Barba had the answer. 

“You want to fuck. Supposing your list of requirements ends there, may I make a suggestion? Fuck me.”

He smiled, and in amongst the certainty dead set in his eyes and bravado curling his features, there was a shade of something Carisi had never seen.

Was he _shy?_

He _was._

“Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Carisi said. His own assuredness surprised him, and he was quick to take it back a step: “What if I--”

“Take it easy. Let me do all the work.” It wasn’t an offer, or even a piece of advice. Carisi heard what it was Barba was giving him: instruction. And he was thrilled.

“Fuck me,” Barba said, and watched as Carisi’s face again burned bright with the notion. It was like flipping a switch: _You want me. Now have me._

“Now. Tonight. In case you wake up tomorrow and know you can’t forgive me.”

“I do forgive you,” Carisi insisted as he nearly fell out of his chair to again reach Barba. It was of critical importance that he kiss a slow, uneven path across Barba’s mouth and jaw, and taste the stubble well down to the man’s throat. 

“I wouldn’t hold it against you if you didn’t,” Barba said as he made quick and deft work of the buttons of his shirt.

“Can we--” Carisi found the height of Barba’s collarbone, and kissed it. 

“--get off--” He kissed down a naked sternum. 

“--the subject--” A belly, now. 

“--of the dildo?”

-

Carisi would have been happy to leave the kinetic feel of their argument behind them, but it returned in full force, shooting through the bedsheets like cracks of lightning. 

There was a full-bodied give and take, same as before. Carisi shuddered and Barba moaned. Barba bucked his hips and Carisi twisted his. Nothing that was given was simply accepted; every movement was answered for, every touch returned twofold.

Carisi liked it better this way. They spoke to one another in ways that, if put into words, would have had Carisi blushing furiously in embarrassment. Barba had a physicality on which Carisi could hang all his desires, a reality he’d only come to accept moments ago, spoken doleful and small. 

_I think I’m gay_ did not do justice to the thrust he could achieve when Barba braced his sides and told him how.

It was only when Carisi lost himself to their rhythms that he discovered Barba could go without end, and was as relentless in bed as he was in a courtroom. All of the trappings had gone--the suits and audiences and esteem. His energy was raw and tended only by how much he was willing to lose of himself.

 _Entirely,_ it seemed, was the case.

Barba repeated a kind of mantra, words linked together by the sweat on Carisi’s brow, the warmth pooling in Barba’s back. _You’re perfect. Perfect. Yes._

Carisi found a world of heat inside Barba, and was astounded to realize it was his own self. His very presence manifested in the gasping, open-mouthed breaths Barba took, the whines he made when Carisi’s touch was his undoing. Carisi put the slick sheen over Barba’s whole body, the red that colored his brow and bit into his lips. Carisi caused the licks of sweat to form on Barba’s upper lip, and Carisi alone kissed them away. 

Coming together in this way carried a tremendous weight. Carisi felt it in his muscles, stirring, aching, long after they’d finished and Carisi was so dizzy with pleasure that he’d sworn to a watchful God that he was experiencing a holy, holy, holy good. 

As Carisi peeled away, spent, Barba turned over and sighed in completion.

“I can’t believe you let me do that,” Carisi said, and laid a hand on Barba’s nearest body part--the smooth back of a thigh--as he tidied himself. 

“You’ve got carte blanche,” Barba hummed.

Carisi’s hand moved to cradle Barba's ass. He teased, “I gotta take care of this now.”

Barba chuckled into the pillow, feeling stupid with warmth and release. He was so _relieved_ that, as well as companionship and trust, they could have pleasure. That, together, they could nurse euphoria from a moment of uncertainty and let it rein over their bodies. 

“Just think--if we’d done that in Paris, it’d have been a total cliche.”

“Thank god we opted for the more rustic feeling of early americana.” 

“This is where our forefathers fucked.”

“Maybe yours.”

Carisi wiped at his mouth to hide his smile. He dragged his fingertips across his lips and marvelled at the heat. “Did you pack wet wipes?”

“...Yeah. I did.”

“You _dog.”_

They were quiet, after. Both chalked it up to a matter of physical exhaustion, but privately each supposed there was still the sting of their conversation to contend for. Affection and kind words and promised appeals did not solve all a man’s problems; there would be time, yet, spent wading through the waters after the dam had broken. 

For the time being, they pushed and pulled at the bedsheets and fortified themselves inside. And Carisi curled towards Barba all the same--his affection, his daring. That hadn’t changed.

The room was a perfect mess of plates and empties and patio furniture. Carisi stared over it all in the dark, willed the image into memory, and hoped it would always be like this.

Carisi thought Barba, who indeed was just on the very edge of sleep, had fallen there entirely. In his imagined privacy he murmured a simple declaration: “I think I love you.”

And it was strange, but Barba didn't register the statement as new. He didn’t sit up, alert, and feel compelled to question or explain it. 

Perhaps he had a high opinion of himself, but he’d long seen the sentiment radiate off Carisi in waves. He couldn’t mask it, not even in silence. And Barba had thought the thing himself, in parts. Pieces. He supposed time and again, it all came together.

Maybe he even beat Carisi to it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I went on a trip for a week, was sick the following week, and only just got my ass in gear to finish this thing. Only one more chapter! There may be one more (shorter) story to this series, however. I just think I can cause more pain, ya know? Be your best self and all that.

Barba stirred first and surveyed their peaceable silence like he knew he ought to be wary of it. 

The previous evening’s argument had been a nightmare--who was to say such a warm and tender morning after wasn’t a dream? 

Barba drew a hand over his face to learn his own expression. It was soft, absent of any forced lines denoting frustration or the controlled withholding thereof. His lips--

He smiled. 

His lips were swollen. There was no mistaking the physical evidence of a night packed fuller than dreams.

The light flooding into their room from errant curtains suggested the quiet was not long-promised. It smoothed over the surfaces of walls, lit puddles of clothes like flaming beacons, and glittered along the polished edges of discarded dishware. Soon it would creep into bed with them and announce itself. 

Barba believed now that the inevitable could be made to wait, and that he could steal moments out of time itself. 

Sex always did have that effect on him. 

His arm was raised, pinned back and under Carisi’s head for its use as a pillow. Barba accepted its fate and toyed absently with Carisi’s hair. He twisted two fingers into the length and felt as though he had time enough to count the individual strands, and furthermore, that such an activity was necessary. He had known Carisi inside of him, now--his weight, heat, and intent--and to let any other part of him go undiscovered was surely a grievous oversight.

He counted: _one, two, three… nineteen, twenty… forty-three, forty-four…_

Barba lost himself again to sleep, the kind that existed just beneath barely-drawn eyelids. He could have awoken himself, but chose to stay, to entertain his own mind with thoughts he could scarcely control.

He dreamed of himself seeing Carisi anew. 

Here was a man so young and lovely, that Barba’s thought him naturally doomed. He seemed to be one of those people Barba did not trouble himself to know, but instead seemed to crop up in droves on television and films, or to appear during Christmastime smiling over displays in department stores. He was kind and strong-willed and smart, if a little clumsy when handling all three. He deserved a pretty wife and children to match, a little clan perfect in their own making. They deserved to be faintly adored by passing strangers, who felt compelled to look and were subsequently mystified by such luck.

And then he’d endure a kind of cosmically superficial tragedy--one of the kids developed an allergy to the family dog, maybe--and consequently their lives toppled like domino pieces. The dog was old, and had been a part of the family well before the children. With no one to take it, it had to be put down, and one child was blamed by the other, and the marriage became strained. (Barba smiled to himself, realizing that even in his subconscious thoughts, he couldn’t chalk up any wrongdoing to Carisi. He had to do the unthinkable and blame a child for its fictitious parents’ fictitious relationship troubles.)

And Barba imagined himself entering the scenario, now. He was an outsider, a mere work friend. His dream told him this was how he knew about the dog and the marital issues. 

_You were too perfect,_ he said in the dream. It sounded more conciliatory than it was. _Perfection can’t sustain itself._

And of course they instigated an affair, something void of good sense and awash in lurid fascination. Barba tried to tend to this moment, to settle into a deeper sleep and see how far Carisi would stray from his golden image. But Barba was denied, instead hauled back again into wakefulness and once there, understood that his dream had wrapped around itself to end at the beginning: Carisi was doomed. 

And none but Barba was the happy culprit.

He blinked and stared lazily down the length of the bed, where Carisi had worked a cold foot between Barba’s legs. Instead of thinking about all the greater things Carisi deserved--chief of all, in a partner--Barba was simply grateful. This was his time, his chance. He knew he could not continue to sabotage himself, that his suicidal streak must end here.

Barba smoothed down Carisi’s hair (he’d remember his progress) and kissed him awake. 

He did not actively resolve to be more tender; it was just a thing that happened. 

They rested in bed together, both awake, neither talking. They breathed into and kissed one another to circumvent their own selves. 

It was either the quiet work of forgiveness or the creeping silence of the malcontent. They’d aired their problems--the first step towards solving them, though by no means their conclusion--and found a new means of communication in the process. Affection made explicit was, perhaps, an inelegant approach, but it pleased their bodies and cleared their minds. It wasn’t the cure for what ailed them, only a salve to calm the wound. 

Barba sighed into the moment, his breath reaching further than he felt permitted to go. 

Confidence and wholehearted belief in another man’s convictions were tenuous things, slow to fuse back together, taking precious time to thicken like threaded muscle.

Yet, paired like they were--sprawled out in bed together, twisted up in the shadow of that most succulent act--it was almost as though nothing awful and nothing great had passed between them. This could have occurred by accident. They could have met here, drawn to the bed by circumstance beyond their control, and made the best of the sense of limbo that put them adrift. 

But it couldn’t last, and Barba would not allow himself to be left to chase it. He sat up--it was more of a lurch--and began untangling himself from Carisi’s limbs. 

“Do you feel okay?” Carisi asked, eyes full of concern. Barba rolled his own at him. 

“Please,” he scoffed. He tried for haughty, but the pooled pleasure in his body spilled out and filled his every crevice, and in doing so saturated his voice with an indelible sweetness. “You were good, but you didn't fuck me into paralysis.” 

“You're wincing, though.”

“You slept on my arm,” Barba said, and in an instant, those rivers ran dry. 

The curl of his words towards something irate stalled him. He sank where he stood just off the bed, and moved a hand to clutch the headboard, as if he needed to steady himself. 

Every time they fought, his reasons for doing so became less tragic, not more. In the grand scheme of things, Barba knew the darkness that festered inside of him was juvenile and unearned. He’d known terror, faced a gun to his head, and felt death’s own hand curl around his shoulder before passing him by completely. _Not now, not like this, not yet._

But so had Carisi. Possibly more than once.

It was neither instructive nor dismissive of Barba’s own circumstances, only informative: there were ways to carry on living. Barba did not suffer because he wanted to be sane any less than Carisi; they merely had different tools at their disposal, and distinct visions of success. Where Carisi had his all-encompassing faith and took comfort even in its murky depths, Barba had the strict confines of his work. If he could thrive there, he could branch out.

Carisi was far and away on a limb. Barba only had to reach him, and not send them both plummeting to the earth.

“Sorry. I’m--” _Abrasive. A dick. Truthfully, a little sore._ “--insufferable. When I oversleep.”

Carisi’s gaze immediately found Barba’s upper arm, as if searching for evidence to confirm Barba’s story, though the smell of armpit steeped deep in Carisi’s own nose was proof enough. And if not that, then the apology seemed sincere. 

Carisi nestled back into bed and smiled up at Barba. “I’d call that a weak excuse, but I genuinely wouldn’t know.”

“Plenty of time to learn all of my bad habits,” Barba promised him. He quirked a tired smile, but realized then that he could not sustain his act. 

His attempts to guard himself and obscure the many compulsive behaviors he'd taken on like a charge as he rebuilt his reputation and--in turn--his confidence would soon have to show themselves or _end._ He could not live a life around this man while simultaneously taking him in, being as _with him_ as Barba knew how. Emotionally, and now physically. Barba did not see any remaining means of hiding. 

It was a daunting prospect: being open with his fears and not feeling like a child for having them at all. 

He wasn’t what he’d once been. There was something cut out of him and torn away besides, and the things he tried to stuff into the hole did little to heal or fill the gash. They merely became saturated in sick and putrid mess, grew heavy in the hand he surrendered to its constant care, and were held, useless, until they had to be discarded like the clumps of waste they were. It was an ugly and persistent process, and Barba tended to it alone. 

His shame was an open sore, and he carried it around, a soft rot ever-expanding in his chest, or dropping into his belly, and sometimes migrating north to his tongue, causing him to spout some sour note or another. 

He needed another hand, though the prospect of asking for aid was tremendously embarrassing. An embarrass _ment,_ rather, to all that he’d done before, powered by his own grit and determination. That he could find himself lacking now made the decades of preparation feel worthless. 

_Didn’t you grow up in the Bronx? Didn’t your own mother praise your friends over you? Didn’t you eek out an existence under the fist of your father? Didn’t you work harder than anyone else? Didn’t you win every scholarship and walk away from everything you’d ever known? Didn’t you build a career and a life for yourself? Didn’t you used to be proud?_

“I hope to,” Carisi said. 

His raspy, sleep-weary sincerity shook Barba to his core. Here was a man who'd had him, and who'd known what he'd had when he did. When had Barba last thought that--of his partner and of himself--and ached in anticipation of another opportunity to present himself for more? 

_Have me and be glad._

That last part, Barba reserved for himself. 

He cast aside his doubts and neuroses and set only Carisi in his sights. The younger man was a lone, languid figure in bed, and wasn’t that a damn shame?

“I still smoke sometimes,” Carisi said, his expression pinched and contrite. He’d said this much in confession maybe a dozen times in his youth. “S’one of my bad habits.”

Barba dropped a knee back into bed, and when he braced Carisi’s sides with his arms, Carisi was quick to rise and meet him. Neither had breath to be proud of, but Barba wore an indecent little smile when they parted, lips slick with satisfaction. He’d been tasted and revelled in, and the act served to silence the ferocious doubts that ailed him. 

All this, and he’d managed not to breathe a word of it into the mouth of another. 

And perhaps that was his mistake: he looked too relieved. Carisi frowned, drew his gaze over Barba’s face speculatively, searching for the cause to which that effect might owe servitude. He then fell into his usual talkative state as if it was a crater in the ground. 

“If you ask me--”

“I didn’t.”

“--Caffeine withdrawal is a real thing, you know. My sister Gina’s second ex-fiancee was a doctor--well, an RN, which is why she didn't marry him--and _he said--_ ”

Barba held up a hand to shush him, and with his other he stripped the bedsheet off, leaving Carisi naked and scrambling for cover. “That's _fascinating._ You can tell me all about it after my second cup. _Up. Now._ ” 

Carisi clamored out of bed, but had no intention of meeting Barba’s demands that they start the day and awake fully from the night they’d had. He wanted it to linger, still, and be on them like a scent: the rain, the sweat-pressed sheets, the remnants of a meal. And Barba’s own flesh--a feast. 

His argument was made in full as Carisi pressed his front to Barba, kissed him and wrapped his arms loosely around the man’s middle, staying his departure. Barba huffed a laugh--these were not the delaying tactics he was used to--but felt compelled to comply in kind, meeting Carisi’s gestures in equal fervor. 

But they were spared the intensity of the previous night, and ultimately sank against one another, their bodies indistinct like sighs. 

_Let’s be this just a moment longer,_ Carisi wanted to say. _Me, on you, in all kinds of ways._

“You know what’s crazy?” It was a murmur against his throat, hardly words at all. 

“What,” Barba replied, feeling silly but comforted in what amounted to a longstanding hug. 

“No birds came in here or nothing. Like. What? The door was open.”

Whatever teasing sophistication Barba could have imagined for them in a pricey hotel, their balcony door still slightly ajar, the room smelling of sex and scotch, was gone. 

He smiled. He didn’t mind.

-

They showered, dressed, but their day held its sluggish start as they lounged in the hotel cafe. Barba ordered a coffee while Carisi--famished--ordered a feast. He had everything to excess: a mound of eggs, heaps of bacon, a stack of pancakes, all of it soaked in sticky-sweet maple syrup. The streams he laid quickly left puddles as he inhaled the calories necessary to fill what all he’d spent. 

Barba watched him, bemused. Beyond the comprehensive way in which he tackled his hunger, he was a sight: the cargo shorts made their triumphant return, but Carisi paired them with a shockingly elegant marled grey short-sleeved henley top. The split at the throat did unmentionable things for Carisi’s slender throat, drawing a line from the muscle there towards infinity. Barba wondered if they shouldn’t simply return to their room, and go to ground, rising again only when they could no longer deny those _other_ most primal urges: food, drink, and an opportunity to miss rush-hour traffic upon their return to the City. 

Barba found himself distracted by the shirt’s slim cut, how it skirted down Carisi’s sides and stretched over his shoulders. The modest crew neck with the unbuttoned journey to his chest was of particular interest. When he noticed the tag sticking out at the back of the shirt, it was as though he’d been struck dumb with a vision of the Virgin Mary. Here was his salvation.

“You’re a mess,” he tutted, and reached out across the table to fix the tag. His was an observation made in good humor, but his breath still caught in his throat when his fingers grazed Carisi’s skin. 

As if governed by instinct, Carisi rolled back his shoulders to meet him. Barba’s hand went flat, palmed at the warmth of invitation, and suddenly they were holding quiet congress over brunch.

Carisi’s cheeks flared red. 

“Would you eat something? I feel like you should eat something.”

“I’m fine until lunch.”

“If I made you something, though, would you eat it?”

“Planning on charging the kitchen, are we?”

“Nah, just. For future reference.”

It was almost like starting over. Every touch, every word was curious, cautious. It _was_ a first, of sorts: they’d done away with secrets and presumptions, and met anew. They had stripped bare and seen one another for what they were: Carisi, as earnest as he seemed, whose naivete was confirmed, though admittedly not as vast and unwieldy as Barba had imagined. And Barba, who wasn’t malicious, but instead was steadily losing his grip on reality. His short-temper and needle-sharp doubts were a product of exhaustion as he attempted wildly to claw his way back into the good graces of his own mind. 

And when he got there, and sat on its very narrow edge, Barba found he could still be kind. He could still risk his heart. 

_What a relief._

And all the other problems--an earned arrogance that ran roughshod over sense--had been there long before Carisi.

Barba drew back his hand. However captivated by the fresh touch of a lover, he could still meet the bare levels of decorum afforded to guests in a hotel restaurant. 

Even those were fairly low. 

He looked around the largely empty dining space just off the hotel’s main lobby. Tables had already been cleared and reset for the prospective lunchtime crowd. Small two-toned plates of white and seafoam green sat among the company of great, folded cloth napkins and the stylish air plants in their cozy glass planters. Guests had already gone to start their days, though Barba spotted the odd elderly couple taking a sit-down after a taxing morning of awaking to the pleasant realization that here would be another day to which they awoke at all. 

It sounded morbid, he supposed, but his Abuelita had once said it was why she got up in the morning, even after her hip surgery made it impossibly painful. 

_And spit at chance?_ she’d said, smiling even through the pain.

And wasn’t _that_ a concept.

They'd never done this. Barba realized the striking novelty of the thing only in contrast of all they _had_ done: meals in New York were primitive affairs, thoughtless conquests made time and again in the span of a day. Lunches and dinners were blasé, their invitations often made out of proximity rather than purpose. But _breakfast_ \--breakfast was sacrosanct, laden with meaning as full as the hour at which it was taken. 

They'd shared coffee some mornings, but that was positively pedestrian. Barba took coffee with lovers, friends, and enemies alike. He took coffee with his own mother. Pancakes and eggs were a rarity. 

Of course, Barba did not partake in either. But they were in his vicinity, and it wasn't the unwelcome result of a subway ride when he couldn't bear to wait for an Uber. 

He drained his coffee and saw it refilled. News and e-mails on his phone only carried a passing interest; he would be back in his office soon enough. As his weekend getaway crept nearer to a close, his concern for any absence from his determined path felt totally unfounded. He longed instead for more: days that stretched to weeks over great open beaches, sat in awe of skylines pierced with domes and spires and monuments to human achievement, lost to a ski resort precariously sat in a pocket of earth carved into the sky. Among every climate and elevation and view, there would be only one constant: the warm hand that took his own, the smile that found him with little searching, and the full weight of a body gripping him like a promise. 

All that, and poorly timed conservation. 

“So. How was your first time?” 

Carisi’s question jarred Barba from his thoughts, but he steadied himself and smiled.

“You want to compare notes?” Barba asked, and upon realizing he had to think on his answer, stalled: “With a man?” 

“Yeah, a man, a human of the male variety, preferably with a dick,” Carisi said, because of course he saw through Barba's tactics, and chose to mock them. 

Barba rolled his eyes, but continued as he’d planned. If Carisi thought he wanted to _dish,_ to be made privy to the encyclopedia ins-and-outs of Barba's love life now that he was an inherent part, Barba would indulge him. He'd crack the spine, smooth a hand over the pages, and read aloud. 

It could be exciting, he supposed, if indeed Carisi wanted to be excited. 

He made a performance of idly sipping his coffee, and sucked his teeth pensively, after. 

“He was an old dog. His ideas were fixed.” 

Surely Carisi didn't expect a fairytale woven from spring daisies and fragrant wisteria vine--that was his beat, now--but by the look on his face, Barba might as well have cited an uncle. Barba felt rankled by the response, when his own recollection wasn't rosy, but nothing near sinister. 

“Rein it in, Sister Sarah,” Barba said. “That's not a bad thing, necessarily.”

The hard expression set in Carisi’s features begged an answer, and Barba gave it plainly: “I was younger, _embarrassingly enthusiastic._ I could take a little punishment. Which was fun, and then less so, and ultimately entirely tedious. I bottomed. _Religiously._ I can’t even remember if he ever once took my cock--anywhere. His mouth. For an ice cream. _Nothing._ ” 

Barba made a face as if Carisi had missed the joke, and Barba alone was remiss in its passing. He was being positively _charming_ and seemed to have found the one instance where Carisi was a poor audience for him. 

“What he wanted was little more than a wooden plank on the floor with a hole in it. I wasn’t meant to move or exert any…” _Strength,_ Barba supposed. _Power._ The very bedrock of his whole sexual world, now, and the means he used to lift generosity into being. 

Carisi was waiting, his breath held tight in his throat, for Barba to finish that thought. Barba didn't.

“It took _hours,_ ” Barba said with near-comical exasperation. Finally, he felt Carisi’s ballooning concern deflate. “I distinctly remember thinking, some Thursday night I met him after his last class and he’d been hammering at me like I was a craft store birdhouse… _I could be studying right now._ ”

It earned him a sideways smile, which Carisi parted and fed with another mouthful of eggs. 

“Okay. _Weird._ So why’d you do it?”

Barba had to remind himself this wasn't an interrogation, and he did, in fact, want to share these details anew. Only a few friends were privy to even the basest details of his personal life, and for as often as he fell away from people, it often became a case of, _You Knew Me When?_ Ages and the preferences closely associated with them reigned over all, and Barba knew he could still find the odd acquaintance who knew him only as straight, or more to the point, only as hopelessly in love with the future Yelina Muñoz. Few lovers, too, were given the tour. None before Carisi had been curious beyond whatever relevant detail found its way kissed from lips to an open shirt collar or the elastic waist of a pair of briefs. 

“I wanted something different. I’d had--love, I suppose. With Yelina. I didn’t want that again for some time.” Poised on the mouth of his mug and hooded slightly by the growth cradling his features, Barba’s lips twisted and allowed for a razor-sharp glimpse of teeth. “What, like you’re surprised I can be petty?”

“Surprised isn’t the word,” Carisi said, and though Barba might have made such a comment spin towards mocking, Carisi seemed incapable of that. He wrinkled his nose, thinking on just the right term. “Sorry, I guess? That you felt that way.”

“I grew out of it quick,” Barba said, a lie, but a necessary one he sold for the sake of his pride. He smiled, then, because at least his tales of self-delusions had a happy end. “I met other, better men. More adventurous. More egalitarian.” Barba liked to think he’d become those things, too. “I still like it. Leading from below. It’s satisfying. Makes me feel in control. Strong.” 

“You were--yeah, both these things.” The words came strangled out of Carisi, gasped out of lips Barba himself had kissed and sucked and made swollen. A flush of red joined his admission, shooting up Carisi’s throat, glaring openly in the cut of his shirt. Barba inclined his head a few degrees, and while not in a million years willing to admit to looking down a man's shirt, he _was_ curious how far that blush had gone. 

And later, he thought, how far he could take it. 

Carisi recovered--somewhat--and added shyly, “And really, really beautiful.”

Barba pursed his lips. Had that been a moment? Did he ruin it with his lecherous, wandering eyes? Carisi, his features beset with such kindness and earnest yearning, hadn’t seemed to notice. 

Though _beauty_ wasn't a term he best associated with himself--particularly in bed, when he’d been stripped of his tailored regalia and had a propensity towards series of prolonged, lyrical moaning that bowed his lips--Barba rolled with it. He set his gaze firmly on Carisi, choosing to believe Carisi meant the compliment fully, and deciding that, yes, the term didn't get nearly enough use. It seemed both archaic and avant-garde, neither for the old world nor this one. _Beautiful._ It seemed suitable for either a lover or a treacherous journey, only, as something taken in full because one could not help themselves. The lover, the journey--both promised a different life.

Carisi was that.

Barba’s eyes, which were narrowed with uncertainty, were joined with a softened brow and curling lip to produce a look of unreserved satisfaction. 

“We’re a matching set, then.” 

Carisi blushed harder still, and Barba was beside himself with wicked delight. 

However impossibly, breakfast resumed. Sweetened declarations, it seemed, could soon become their norm, accompanied by things as pedestrian as coffee, eggs, and shared mornings. 

“So, wait--you met after _his_ class? You slept with a professor?” Carisi frowned at his own saying so, like he was then compelled to imagine the act, and saw Barba's limbs as impersonal, the whole of him thin with youthful defect. 

Barba cocked an eyebrow, unsettled. “Are you implying something untoward?”

“No. Just.” His wayward tone sat poised on a cliff’s edge as Carisi seemed to want to get away with saying nothing and meaning everything. 

Barba heard only the latter. 

“I'll thank you to keep your thoughts either _spoken_ or _held,_ because whatever you _intimate_ won't be taken kindly.” Barba moved to take another sip of coffee, but found he had more to say: “ _And_ I’ll have you know I had top marks well before I sucked a single cock.”

“God, okay, that’s not where I was going. _At all._ ” Carisi was quick to shrink under Barba’s hardened voice, but couldn’t help himself for the small grin that escaped, because _of course_ Barba’s main concern would be the validity of his education and accomplishments.

“So it’s the other thing,” Barba determined.

Carisi hid his uncertainty in another bite of pancake. “You tell me.”

Barba had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Carisi had grown to be sensitive about such subjects not because his work demanded it, but because his work had changed him. It wouldn't do, then, to take one look at how far he'd come and scoff at the journey.

“It was a stupid choice, but it was all mine,” Barba said, and in answering Carisi gently, he found himself in the strange position of being gentle with himself. A rarity, because in his mind fucking a professor had been the radical compression of his neuroses: he didn't look like he belonged at Harvard, and Yelina had told him he didn't belong with her. His solution, then, was to put himself in the bed of someone with standing, and gain presence and ownership by association. 

For lack of admitting that much, Barba loosened the noose further still, because his living, breathing self seemed to please his company. He said in his own defense, “He taught in the Divinity School, not Law. A world away.”

A _world,_ further, that Barba was glad to have left behind. He understood that niggling bit of doubt he'd experienced at the time was, in fact, an underfed sense of fairness and reciprocity. He'd been colossally underserved by the arrangement, which was a tremendous loss, Barba thought, considering how good he'd looked in his twenties.

“Thank you for telling me,” Carisi said, and smiled when Barba rolled his eyes so extravagantly that his head had to follow the gesture, and when he next looked at Carisi, all narrowed-eyes and unimpressed in his pout, it was sidelong and at an angle. 

“You’re just going to suck the fun out of everything.”

“Consent _is_ fun,” Carisi ribbed, and with his tongue between his teeth, couldn’t help but go in for one last dig: “He taught at Harvard Divinity School? _Really?_ That’s what you went for?” 

Barba raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t playing around.” 

“I get that,” Carisi said, eyes wide and mouth straining to hide a smile. 

“Had to hit all that Catholic School upbringing and self-loathing right where it hurts,” Barba hummed, and in retrospect found the whole thing rather daring. “Byzantine maneuvers.”

“Yeah, that’s you all over.” Carisi raised his mug. “Shows commitment.” 

“Thank you. I’ll take that sincerely.”

“You take it… any way you want to.”

Barba snorted. Both Carisi’s earnestness and attitude made for easy fodder to revel in, and left Barba feeling bemused and tickled, respectively. Carisi was a smart aleck in the way that young boys learn first--and best--from their older sisters, but because he wasn’t the baby, because there had been another born to his brood, he developed a candy-sweet center to buoy up others. Even in jest, he did not readily engage in malice. It was pleasing all over as a kind of sensibility even Barba couldn’t puncture, despite prolonged efforts to do so. 

Beyond that, it was deceptively alluring. 

Barba rolled his shoulders back and smiled smoothly across the table. “So. When am I fucking you?”

Carisi choked on a mouthful of eggs, and turned red before he recovered. “Excuse me?”

“Turnabout is fair play… do unto others… any of this sinking in?” Barba waited a beat, then added, sounding pleased: “That last one was unintentional.”

Barba’s smile faded as Carisi’s unease, instead of relenting towards interest--or at the very least, curiosity--firmed itself up, became guarded and walled. Barba felt the need to incline his head again so as to see over it.

Carisi sank back into his seat, pointedly away from his meal, and away from Barba. “I don’t--I mean. I hadn’t really… Already?” 

He then literally glanced at his watch, as if Barba’s inquiry was suddenly a demand hinging on a strict timetable. Barba didn’t appreciate the overreaction, much less the optics that went along with it. 

He leaned forward, chasing the proximity he’d lost. “We’ve basically been dry jumping for months--”

Carisi was already shaking his head when he interrupted, “I’ve blown you, like, _so many times--_ ”

Barba sat back just as quickly. He hadn't expected an argument. “I’m surprised you didn’t keep a tally.”

“Was last night not good?”

“It was great. Exceptional, even.” It had been as Barba said a thousand times over that night: _perfect._ Everything Carisi wanted to be, he was. And Barba gave of himself to see it happen. 

But because Barba was no blushing virgin or wilting rose, he knew there was more still to celebrate and to critique. Sex held the same duplicitous nature as a sunset--when you waited and longed for a good one, it felt nothing short of miraculous. Otherwise, they were devastatingly common. Everyone had a taste.

Barba and Carisi had gone a long winter without one, so chief above all, it felt long overdue.

“We should do it again,” Carisi said, finally sounding sure of himself. 

“We will. And variety is the spice of life, don't you think?”

“You just said you liked being on bottom.”

“It’s not _all_ that I like,” Barba said. He meandered with his replies, groping pointlessly at the problem as though a sheet could hide an elephant, obscure its mass and render its shape unknown. Barba imagined himself pawing at the tusks and trunk, and still feigning wonderment. It was beneath him. 

He asked, his tone dry as the Sahara, “You want the definitive list over breakfast?” 

Carisi and his plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes were suddenly listless, and he seemed to hazard prodding at his meal, like he'd rather leave it for a still life. Barba supposed that was his cue, and committed the scene to memory. 

He even titled it:

_Man and eggs, petrified._

“Are you going to avoid anal sex in the future?” Barba asked plainly. Then, without waiting for an answer, added, “I figured.”

“Figured what.”

“You know what,” Barba said, and neither raised his voice nor strengthened his tone. He went for another gulp of coffee, but stopped short. “Christ, actually--maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re that misguided.”

Carisi skipped straight through betrayal and affront and settled on looking outright annoyed. 

“I like how whenever you have something you don't want to say, you act like it's my fault.” 

“Fine. But I don't think you want to hear it.” 

Smug was usually Barba’s favorite way to feel--smug and secure that his determinations would sail over all--but here he pitied himself. That he should be the one to point out Carisi’s baggage, the internalized homophobia he had managed to navigate and counter in every respect but _this,_ the consummate one, seemed unfair to Barba. It should be the result of quiet contemplation or, better yet, voiced by a friend.

Did Carisi have any? Any who knew him like he meant to be known?

Barba didn’t want to be the enemy, but if he kept quiet and let Carisi languish in this cruel state of unwitting self-hatred, he’d surely be a casualty. 

“Shoot,” Carisi said, cockier than even he knew he ought to be, going up against Barba in any respect. It was all he could do, now: look tough when he felt anything but. “Tell me how I have wronged you before lunchtime. I’m genuinely curious.”

He didn’t sound it. Rather, his voice seemed held together with spit and force of will, his Staten Island accent slathered over all like a heavy lacquer meant to fill every crack.

Carisi dreaded Barba’s response. He knew it would be exacting and true.

“Consider… the impossibility of trying to be intimate with someone, and succeeding--emotionally, physically--save for one instance. One instance, which is enveloped in such secrecy that the silence itself becomes a preoccupation.” 

Barba wet his lips. It was a start. Because the withholding of one element or another in their sexual arsenal hardly merited such woeful speech, he strode towards what truly bothered him about the delay: “It's more than shyness or disinterest. Those things can be spoken to and answered for. This is silence being shouted through a megaphone. This… it's dizzying.” 

“What is _this,_ ” Carisi asked, impatient. “What is it you think I’m doing?”

“Consider… that someone seems to not accept that part of _why_ they're avoiding that something is the whole basis for that someone’s claim towards a lack of support in going public.”

Carisi stared at him blankly. “Once more, Counselor? Rephrase?”

“We weren’t even fucking, and you wanted to tell everyone we were fucking.” 

Barba had set down his coffee mug and used his hands to blockade those words onto the tabletop. He looked like a man trying to heard cats or bravely box in a spider. Carisi didn’t know Barba to be partial to or find offense in either, and the words seemed so spare when everything prior had been carefully mined and artfully chosen. And yet, both were true. 

Carisi smiled at the absurdity of it all. 

Barba, who had just come off the prickly matter of spelling out his first tryst in all its fumbling glory, believed his pleasure and his pride to be linked, and not at all absurd. 

“I’m being sincere. _Look._ It’s been months. You never showed an interest in having anal sex. You saw the condoms, lube, and… assorted accoutrements. You knew I was interested. I noticed you were… not. I didn’t press the issue, but I considered the implications.”

Carisi set his jaw at a remarkable angle--the exact distance between shock and awe. His sovereignty was dealt a blow and all he had to show for it was a cratered argument, uselessly made after the fact: “It’s not all about sex, though--”

“I read that pamphlet, too,” Barba said, too sharp, and for a moment he was silent, as if holding his breath would likewise slow his heart from pumping blood to any open wounds.

Gently, he tried: “You're right, it's not. And whether we do that again or not is besides the point. You saw the dildo.” Barba cocked an eyebrow. “I can get by.” 

Another stroke of red crossed Carisi’s cheeks and ears and throat. That he could be replaced was one thing--being _excused_ was the greater infraction. He was mortified. 

“I don’t know if you’re shitting me right now, or,” Carisi stopped. He stared over his plate, his view was one of bloated bits of pancake and cold eggs. He imagined his options to be either stuffing his mouth or continuing the lie. Doing either felt like debasement. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

It was as near an admission of guilt as Barba was going to hear. 

“Just the truth will suffice,” Barba said, and in half a second his tone had fallen, sank into some warm place deep in his chest. Carisi felt cradled there, his faults both known and tolerated in an embarrassing limbo.

Barba had reached a softness in his speech was that built into his soul. He’d been there, too, entertaining himself for too long until the lie hurt worse than the truth. 

“I can't believe that you wouldn't be--curious. That doesn't seem like you.” Barba drummed his fingers on the table top, then conceded the crux of his argument, and hoped Carisi wasn’t so cowed into stasis that he might still hear it: “It seems like a lot of other people.”

He pressed further, gauging the sentiment as it pierced Carisi’s skin and found a vein to feed into, saying: “It seems like subservience to an opinion that doesn’t hold with all the rest you keep in such high regard.”

Barba sipped his coffee again, and was coming to hate that it was an aftertaste to a slow dismemberment. 

He let Carisi fill in the blanks. Barba was wary of people's perceptions of his sexuality for as much as those perceptions impacted his movements or otherwise stalled his career; he had no issues with his preferences in their own right. Carisi, on the other hand, had saw fit to catapult himself into a stage of being with little concern for the journey. 

Scratch that--he'd read a book. 

Barba was reminded of Carisi’s tendency to play lawyer to his cases with only a few semesters of night school under his belt. 

“It seems innate in your approach. Come out or not, reference me to your heart’s content. But mean what you say. It should stand on its own merits.” 

“You're asking for evidence again,” Carisi said, sounding sullen. 

Barba shook his head, silence being his sole counterargument.

“It’s not the same if you’re alone, though!” Carisi complained--his argument, his voice, all of it fraying. “That’s like saying, _Hey! I like cock, everybody!_ ”

“You only want people to know you like mine?” Barba chanced a smile. “How flattering.”

Then, because arguments were his life and livelihood, Barba couldn’t help but go in for the kill: “And you seemed to have torpedoed your own argument. Is it or is it not a question of sex?” 

Carisi looked summarily destroyed. If he were a defendant on the stand, this was where Barba would have turned, taken a step to his left, and let the jury have a good look at him. Their focus would shift from the slump in his shoulders to the crease between his brows, and they’d know failure written into his features, scripted and read like lines in a daytime soap opera. It was an ugly thing to see up close, without the distance and gloss of the camera lens. People were naturally appalled by fault and its reckoning. 

Then, in a tone Carisi recognized as Barba’s go-to for _kindness_ \--which was marked by its overly gentle measure and dulcet sounds, like a soft bit of landing Barba threw out ahead of himself before making the great leap into such forgiving headspace--Barba said, “I understand what you’re feeling. _Wanting_ to take those steps is one thing. Doing them,” he trailed off. 

There were words he didn’t say, because even in Barba’s own mind, they were unnecessary and pushy: _It doesn’t help to ignore it under heaps of platitudes. If there’s an issue, Carisi, it's not entirely mine._

He supposed if Carisi wanted to find them, they were spread clear enough over his features, pinched in between brows, ground down between his teeth. All the judgments Barba knew were right, but none that benefitted Carisi to hear lorded over him like an unattainable prize.

“Maybe you have an answer for it I’m just not seeing,” Barba said instead, and thought he could at least extend that courtesy. “But I think it’s worth considering why you want to be out in your most public space--the one you and _you alone_ operate in as a cop--when you’ve chosen to deny that label in private.” 

“It bothers you,” Carisi concluded, a touch defensively. 

Barba nodded; he'd protracted his point, there was no sense in stepping back from it, now. 

“It seems like you want to retain a level of deniability. Like I encouraged you to do, ironically enough.” And that was a surprise: some of his smart tones were for his own punishment, not just Carisi’s. 

He said, sort of shunted and shy, like he’d rather not admit to the softer parts of himself: “I’m not entirely driven by my career and my reputation. There’s the little matter of personal pride, too.” 

“Okay,” Carisi said, and joined the surrender with his hands splayed out flat on the table, like he was serious. “Yes. I get what you’re saying. And maybe I’m a little…” he caught himself, “More than a little… complicit in that.”

Barba produced a smile for him, something small and pretty, like he’d stolen it off the face of a happier person. 

“Just think about it.” 

Barba believed that joy and peace and acceptance were compulsive ideas. Carisi was the kind of restless individual who would suspend his soul-searching for the belief that--at least--answers were out there. 

Carisi tended to his bruised ego with one last shot in at Barba at the issue he’d raised: “So this is some kind of _the morning after_ debriefing, huh?”

“When you get resoundly fucked in the ass, you can choose the topic of conversation,” Barba said, and primly sipped his coffee.

Carisi ran a hand through his hair, then huffed a tired little laugh. He swept his gaze over Barba again, just to be certain of one thing: he wasn’t upset. They’d had an argument--of a kind--but the floor wasn’t slick with blood from any fatal wounds, and both were still seated, and Barba hadn’t told Carisi to do otherwise. 

“Yeah. Seems fair.” 

Suddenly, he couldn’t stop smiling. 

Barba frowned at him, glanced at his plate. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah, I--”

Barba kissed him. It was a joined effort with his hand, which led first to rest on Carisi’s cheek--a gentler thing than even the kiss--and stayed, a guiding force, until it slipped gracefully away, its ghostly warmth gone in favor of fingertips under Carisi’s chin and a thumb dragging across his lips. 

He said nothing, hoping--believing--he’d said it all.

Carisi’s shining eyes were set upon him in a way that was miraculous in its familiarity. It made Barba want to throw a fit, a toddler’s unkept confusion at being given what he wanted. _Mine! This is mine?_

Carisi said, “Can I get a copy of that list, though?”

“For future reference?” Barba teased, echoing Carisi’s own words. “I’ll have it on your desk Monday. Hand-written, signed, and notarized.”

_Mine. This is mine. All doomed and all mine._

-

Boston felt cleaner after the rain, a slate wiped of all errant marks and left pristine. The mid-morning sun had already done the task of drying the earth and clearing the sky. They chose to lazily walk the city, again passing through the Commons before inched northwards. Although it was Sunday and the city streets were buzzing with locals and tourists alike, both men found themselves lost in the other’s company, and in that narrow vision, the city was entirely theirs. 

Barba, who had seemingly run rampant through his supply of crisp white shirts, opted for a more casual light blue linen piece, and joined it with his new--his _only_ \--baseball cap. It was deceptively stylish, Carisi thought. Sophisticated, even, in the impenetrable way men who knew how to dress themselves were. Carisi knew he'd need a tux and tails to look half as composed.

The first Roman Catholic Church built in Massachusetts by Italian immigrants was St. Leonard’s in the North End. 

They wandered in long after services had ended, and while Carisi moved clear to the front to genuflect at the cloth-draped altar, Barba hung close to the back, pretending to be taken with the architecture, when in truth he found the columns and arches bathed in golden light to be tacky and grandiose. The church seemed held in perpetual twilight, warm for its color, but tipped towards night. All the various parts of the structure combined to make it feel heavy and cloistered, and Barba found himself feeling like he used to, attending mass as a child. 

He’d always had a fear of places like these caving in on him. 

Carisi, on the other hand, seemed right at home. When he next stood, he looked upon the paintings of various saints and smiled as if he knew each to be a close, personal friend. 

Though, Barba supposed that was meant to be the point. 

They didn’t linger. Either Carisi felt immodest in his cargo shorts, or Barba’s discomfort echoed off every dip and curve in the ceiling, and Carisi heard it like the wail of a trapped animal. Whatever the reason, their departure took them back into the warm light of day. 

The northern part of the city was crowded with old buildings and landmarks, many they'd seen wandering on their first day. In the midst of all this, Carisi found and drifted towards a small section of park outfitted with water fixtures and shade trees. Children jumped and darted through the water, squealing when they were caught in the spray. Parents talked among themselves as they observed the ruckus from a distance. 

Immediately, Barba cased it as something more akin to a spectacle than an oasis. Here was a zoo, or a distant cousin to the aquarium near their hotel. It was for passing, idle interest--not their own participation. But Carisi was all too quick for him, and they started down that path before Barba had a chance to deviate gracefully. 

Carisi dropped onto a bench overlooking a section of park littered with picnicking couples and sunbathers with their nose pressed into thrillers or textbooks--and little in between. 

There was more nuance, here, Barba thought with some relief, than among the young families. The thought must have read across his face, because Carisi snorted in amusement and shook his head. 

Barba took off his hat to feel the full effect of the sun. It was as small a genetic slight as he could hurl Carisi's way: Barba would tan, and Carisi would burn. 

“You look great, by the way,” Carisi said, dipping his head low to better issue his praise in confidence.

“Thank you,” Barba hummed, a raked a hand through his hair, raising it from how the hat had hugged it flat. He surveyed Carisi and added, “You look pink. Which is fine.”

Carisi had been pink since Fenway Park, maybe earlier--Barba thought he even got a touch of it through the windows on the train. 

The brilliant green of the grass was interrupted by shocks of pink and white--the stolen petals off nearby trees as the wind swept through and disturbed their branches. 

They hadn’t been sitting more than ten minutes--and even then, only edging near to comfort--when Carisi leapt up and abandoned their bench. He rushed to the aid of a young mother attempting to unfold her massive stroller, a sleeping baby wrapped to her chest all the while, its little head between her breasts, its heavy bottom replacing the swollen stomach she’d endured for months. 

She’d previously been sat at the next bench over, nestled in a corner of blooming lilacs and iceberg rose. Barba had noticed her when they passed, but he hadn’t very well kept watch as--presumably--Carisi had done, and was much less concerned with the struggle between her and her stroller. 

Carisi met her like a targeted missile; there was nothing refrained in his approach. He saw a means of helping a stranger and his only drive was to see her problem resolved. 

“My friend’s got one just like it,” Carisi was saying, and though the woman was dark and lovely in her complexion, Barba could see the resemblance to Rollins in her wide eyes and the focused way in which she held her baby, like it was a technique to master, and nothing she saw as innate in her being. “You got to be firm--” 

Barba stood from his seat and slowly joined the twosome. He kept his distance--unlike Carisi--and smiled politely, hoping to extend a little credence to Carisi’s behavior. His tight smile said, _Hello and my apologies,_ and the shake of his head was a patented, _Yes, he does this. And he means you no harm._

It was his own performance, though Barba was shocked at how easily he could summon it.

Carisi sorted the stroller, then broke it down and sorted it again. Barba was embarrassed that he’d out-and-out made a demonstration of it, and if ever there was a use for the baseball cap, it would be to pull down low over his face. But the woman seemed to take note, and the line forging itself between her eyebrows was one of interest, not dismay. Barba supposed that was all due to Carisi’s affable nature, which more than made up for his brazen approach. 

The woman introduced herself as Sami before settling her child neatly into the stroller seat. He stirred, suddenly very aware of the absence of his mother’s heartbeat echoing his own. Sami laughed when Carisi began cooing over the child’s great, inquisitive eyes and full head of hair. He complimented _her_ on these things, like she had exacted the qualities herself. 

Barba disliked the infant immediately. For a thing that couldn’t hold its head up, it was too alert. Its stare was trained on those gathered, moving slowly from its mother, to Carisi, to Barba. He seemed to be taking stock and making determinations. But then what?

Barba felt an absurd need to challenge the infant’s thoughtless calculations. 

To exhibit such weakness without knowing the scope was a terrifying concept. That he might liken being young to being comatose was, Barba supposed, vastly in error. But those conceits were his own and he held to them.

Sami introduced her baby as Omar, another revelation sure to simultaneously offend Barba and knock Carisi backwards on his ass with its merit. _Consonants and vowels, no way!_

It was a grown man’s name, Barba thought, and in that instant he grasped why Carisi wanted to be called Sonny. He wasn’t a Dominick at fourteen months, and he wasn’t one now. 

Barba wondered if, when Carisi became a father--because if there was a man alive better suited for that role, Barba did not know him, and even if presented with all that man’s accreditations and worth, would still have his doubts--would he assume a new title? Would _Dominick_ part his lips and slide off his tongue with ease during introductions? Would the moniker of _Sonny_ fall to his son?

In the back of his mind, Barba heard an ugly shadow of a thought steal his own voice and ask, _Is that really any of your business?_

Barba shook his head and took a step back. 

He watched Carisi watch the child. Carisi was a burst of light to challenge even the most pronounced of summer days. Today was one, and sunbathers may as well have turned their tanned forms towards Carisi’s smile. 

Carisi said something to make the woman laugh, and Barba realized that his presence was unnecessary. Whatever wrinkles he’d thought to smooth from Carisi’s presentation were a creation of his own mind, fault attributed where there was none to be found. The rest of the world seemed happy to take the man as he was.

-

They spent the day wishing they’d done this--only this--since their arrival: relax.

Time felt lazy and indistinct as they people-watched and drank in the sun. And while they spoke sparingly, touch was a constant feature. Barba sank his arm around the back of the bench, then curled it up like an ocean wave to rest his hand on Carisi’s neck or delve his fingers into the man's hair. Carisi found a rampant fascination in the hand that graced him, and inspected it whenever the opportunity arose. Carisi would interlace their fingers, and study with his own hand the pronounced strength in Barba's. It was a marvel that his own hands--large, spidering--could look as delicate as a Montblanc pen by comparison. 

Carisi pointed out an old pug so rotund that he doesn’t so much as walk as he does bounce from his left side to his right. His face looked to be laden with the after effects of any number of strokes, with nothing drooping in congress. Everything rebelled. 

Barba frowned, remembering the last time Carisi seemed set upon a creature with such interest. He said, “I swear, if you say it looks like me, forget last night, forget everything, we are _through._ ”

Smirking--and waiting a beat so as to tease Barba’s concerns--Carisi corrected him: “I was gonna say Buchanan.”

Barba took another look at the dog and was relieved. 

“God, you’re right.”

Their bench was backed against an overgrowth of flowers, particularly an aggressive bush of salvia leucantha that sought to lean over the top of their bench or fit itself between the wooden slats. Carisi plucked an offending flower from its long stem, and turned it over gently in his hands. The purple-licked petals were velvet to the touch, but broke like arteries into something wet and bleeding when he over-handled it. 

“There was something I wanted to say to you yesterday.”

Barba, who had been resting comfortably under the bill of his hat and shade of his sunglasses, tuning out the noises of of the park and listening only to Carisi, peeked open an eye. “And it still fits the vibe we’ve got going on here?”

Carisi huffed a laugh. Yesterday’s arguments hardly seemed so far away as to safely joke about them now, but if Barba thought so, Carisi trusted his judgment. 

“Earlier, when we were at Harvard.” Carisi leaned forward, then sat back. He seemed to have to physically work the words out of his body, coax them into being. “I never really got as far as,” he gestured openly to Barba, who was caught off guard by the comment, but held his composure.

“Excuse me?” Barba asked, a tentative smile curling just one corner of his mouth. He looked ready to take an insult gracefully. “What, in my person, is so evident that you can’t be bothered to put words to its expression?” 

“I mean… I never got this far.”

Barba served Carisi a glazed-eye of a look--some feat, given he hadn’t bothered to remove his sunglasses. His disdain--tripping slowly on a rotary trigger--was nonetheless clear. 

“ _This_ far,” Carisi repeated a third time. “Meaning--you, at Harvard, _being who you were at Harvard._ ” Flustered now, Carisi went all-in. “Not that going there was ever in the cards for me, but. I never moved away from home and took the chance, ya know? I was too scared. I thought I could stay where I was, be everything I was, except for this one thing.”

Barba narrowed his eyes and ran the comment back and forth in his mind. Carisi seemed to think there was a compliment there, but Barba wasn't so convinced. 

“I didn’t go to Harvard to sleep with men,” he said cooly, “That was just a happy accident, really.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Carisi said, and implored: “I mean--you changed. _You_ did that. It’s a good thing, no matter who wants to tell you otherwise.” 

He was a man possessed, and Barba wondered if Carisi had meant to say this before their conversation went off the rails and Barba got defensive about his friendship with Alex Muñoz. 

Carisi went on, still assured, still so desperate for Barba to hear him that Barba found himself trying harder to do so. He was both utterly convinced and entirely sorry when he said: “Some people go their whole lives not changing.”

And with a realization as smooth as honey and soft as waking, Barba knew that this was the much-sought compliment. He gave a brief nod, thankful for it. 

“Did law school change you?”

“Not entirely. Not yet.” Carisi ducked his head some, as if admitting that much in Barba's presence was its own insult. “Not as much as being a cop. But I’m better for it.” Carisi sank his hands down his thighs, stretching until he reached his knees, then pulled back. He looked at Barba quizzically, as if there had been something secretly said--or at least implied--in the exchange. “If you could change something about me--”

It was an absurd hypothetical, inherently stupid and juvenile and Barba couldn't possibly let him finish. Nevermind that he had a ready answer: “I’d want you to understand Spanish.”

Carisi laughed. Barba wondered if he gave Carisi’s indelible spirit as much appreciation and consideration as it deserved. That kind of confidence was born into blood and fed into being, and entirely its own reward. They could bicker and disagree and challenge one another and still--and _yet_ \--Barba found he could trust that however far they took it, Carisi had the strength and reach to pull them back. 

“What? Seriously?” Then, with tremendous dismay, Carisi added: “I studied Latin.”

“There are things I’d like to say to you in bed.”

“I’ll learn Spanish for that.”

Tragically, Barba could very easily picture Carisi in one of those late-night courses taught by some retired abuelita at The Learning Annex. 

He shook his head and decreed, “You’ll learn what I teach you.”

“Gotta start somewhere,” Carisi said, grinning wide. “I know a little. Esta es la policía. Bajar sus armas--”

Nevermind the lack of buoyancy the speech demanded--Carisi uttered every other word as though it was caked in cement and intended to be thrown into the Hudson to drown. It was, without reservation, a traumatic experience. Barba held up both hands in an attempt to stop it.

“Forget it. I don’t need to hear my language put into the _meat grinder_ that is a Staten Island accent. Okay? No thank you.” 

“So you just want me to listen to you?”

“Don’t tell me this surprises you.”

“Not in the least,” Carisi said. Then, after a beat of silence, he echoed, “Meat grinder?” 

His tone bent more towards amusement than offense. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen how Barba could be: defensive and quick to protect what was his. Carisi saw it, liked it, and _provoked_ it.

Barba shrugged, not willing to back down now. “It’s like you were conceived under the Statue of Liberty and born in the Staten Island dump. New York, _but at what cost.”_

“You sound like my sister. Gina--Teresa’s Irish twin, essentially--she doesn’t have an accent. She watched a lotta PBS growing up and she’s got this… unplaceable, Midwestern, _total snooze_ of a voice. She’s, like. Audible oatmeal. She _hates_ that every meal we have together sounds like a ten car pileup.” Carisi grinned fondly. “I didn’t bother. Oh, man. If only I’d known.”

As Carisi pretended to languish in the sun and beget his thoughtless nature, Barba considered the breadth of their conversation and how swiftly he’d ended it.

“Sorry,” Barba said, sharp and unexpected. The surprise was twofold: the word itself parting his lips was itself an event. He glanced sidelong at Carisi, his face some gross appropriation of contrition, like he was guessing at how it ought to look. Squinting, maybe? Tented brows? A hint or a smile or the ghost of a frown? 

He waited uselessly for Carisi to see him as malicious. 

“Your accent isn’t awful. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you were pretty spot-on with _meat grinder._ And I’m letting the Statue of Liberty thing go ‘cause that sounds kind of nice.”

“Don’t,” Barba started, and was mortified that he was essentially tattling on himself, and doing so first mandated that his own comments were beyond reproach and--worse-- _childish._ But it had to be said: “Don’t let me put you down like that.”

“It was funny,” Carisi said, but finally found the loose tension Barba had caught himself up in. Carisi took Barba’s hand to pull him out. “Hey, come on. You gotta give me lip. It’s, like, our _dynamic.”_ He smiled again at the flash of annoyance that passed Barba’s face, lifting his features into something better-known and, therefore, pleasing in its familiarity. “And it’s killing you not to say something right now.”

Although he didn’t so much as blink, Barba was squirming, a sharp reply cutting the tip of his tongue and threatening to bleed out through gritted teeth. 

Carisi smirked. He knew Barba far too well.

“Dynamic?” Barba repeated, his tone high and haughty. “I’m so glad you’ve equated our relationship with some waste-basket, think-tank term that powers syndicated television duos.”

Carisi threw an arm around Barba’s shoulders and smiled at his most sickeningly sweet brilliance. “I’m _so glad_ you think so.”

Barba bit at just one corner of his bottom lip. He’d been played, and easily so. 

_I am a sitting duck for this man._

“Are you mocking me?”

“Yeah,” Carisi confirmed without hesitation. “Anyone ever try that before? Where are they now? In the ground, I bet.”

“In the ground,” Barba echoed, shaking his head. “I mean, _yes._ But not by my hand. Providence.”

“Is that what you call the guy you hire to bury your enemies? Oh, no, am I Providence?”

A gasp of wind breezed through the park, stirring up blankets and children’s toys and pollen, stealing away napkins from lunching Bostonians, who didn’t so much as blink at the disturbance. Barba inclined his head slightly, more protective of his hat than he believed he ought to be. Carisi just grinned and watched the commotion. Peace torn asunder seemed to be his particular interest.

They spied a young couple having a picnic: two young men--boys, really, if not for their desire to be men--spilled out over a blanket, making one another laugh over a backpack open to snacks. One of the two sometimes took off to snap photos with a handy Canon picked up at a rummage sale, while the other occupied himself with a textbook that doubled for a place to balance their iced coffees. They were nearly identical in dress, both in a rush back to the nineties in cutoff jean shorts (skinny) and sleeveless shirts (billowy). 

“We should have one of those,” Carisi said.

“A twenty year old?” Barba replied, smirking. “I’m almost afraid to ask. Are we adopting or expanding our sexual circle?”

“A picnic, smartass.” Carisi pushed up, off the bench and met Barba with a chaste kiss. “Wait here.”

He jogged off down the park path leading back to the busy street they’d turned off from--a wise move, because if Barba had any say in the matter, he wasn’t going to _run_ to have himself heard. 

Carisi returned not fifteen minutes later, his arms laden with a blue and white box from the famed Mike’s Pastry, two sweaty bottles of water, and a small styrofoam cup of coffee. He saw that Barba had disappeared from the bench, and was instead stood where the young couple had been, partially under the shade of a black alder tree, his feet planted on their blanket.

“I didn’t colonize this plot,” Barba said when Carisi approached him, smiling with no lack of uncertainty. “They were packing up to go, I asked if I could buy their blanket.” 

Carisi wished he could take a few steps back and simply watch Barba stand, saving their newfound spot, for a moment longer. He looked to be puttering--a thing so wholly unlike his tireless self that Carisi wanted to study it, and commit every detail to memory: the draw of Barba’s arms loosely about his chest, the jut of his hip, how he pouted at his phone. All of this should be preserved, Carisi thought, for future generations.

Here was Rafael Barba, doing a thoughtlessly kind thing, and feeling a total fool for it.

“How much did they take you for?”

“ _Nothing,_ smartass,” Barba huffed, and took the sole coffee that was surely meant for him. “They thought we were cute. Said they wanted to be just like us when they get--and I quote-- _really old._ ” 

Barba put the term in air quotes, even hazarding the grip he had on his coffee to do so, because the notion was just _that_ oppressive. 

“Kids today,” Carisi grinned. 

“It’s the cargo shorts,” Barba said firmly. “They age you.” 

Carisi shook his head and looked at the striped blanket under their feet. “Thanks,” he said.

“Now you can sit on the ground. Congratulations.”

Carisi did and was immensely pleased for it. More so, too, when Barba did the same and acted as though he had faced no greater injustice than being made to _sit_ outdoors on a _blanket_ in the _summer._

“You didn’t seriously prefer the bench.”

“It provided… lumbar support.”

“Lay down,” Carisi suggested, and demonstrated. He was long enough that much of his legs and feet spilled over the blanket’s fraying ends to rest in the grass. He folded his hands up behind his head and made it all look so easy.

Comfort, pleasure. These were things Barba had practiced and mastered through years of trial and error. Carisi seemed to be a natural.

“No, thank you.”

“Then suffer, I guess.”

“Well listen to you,” Barba said, and sipped his coffee. There was a dash of cream, which was how he liked it when he had the luxury of drinking it any means other than hot, black, and without testing the fates of a whatever half-empty carton of milk was poised precariously on some sticky bodega countertop. “Have you lost all respect for me since I put out?”

Carisi sat up, carrying his weight on his elbows. “‘Course not. I always knew you were tough but now… no mercy.”

“I don’t know quite how I feel about that,” Barba said, and passed his coffee back to Carisi to hold. “I’m taking my shoes off but _that’s it._ ”

Barba took his shoes off and undid a third button on his shirt--nothing so risqué, but if he was expected to relax, he supposed he ought to look the part. 

He found it far easier to make himself comfortable against certain odds--desks, cold chairs, hard angles, tight shirt collars and well-knotted ties--all the various things that filled his professional life. With the challenge removed, he was at a loss as to how he could master these simple motions. He _was_ comfortable--so how much further could he push it? 

After some shifting and situating himself, Barba ended up laying down, same as Carisi. He was not happy about it. 

“Why do you hate it when I'm right?” Carisi asked. “Is it ‘cause I've said something obvious, or because you wanted to say it?”

_“Yes.”_

They watched the clouds creep across the blue sky. They held congress there, and Barba couldn’t help but imagine them as powdered wigs, things of elegance and status. The thought spun him in a tizzy towards his phone, where he set upon e-mails and read through requests from his office. He started to reply to one of the latter, offering his esteemed advice as quickly as he could--and, simultaneously, make it look easy--but his efforts were stalled.

Specifically, they were halved.

Carisi’s left hand found Barba’s right, and peeled it away from the phone. Barba would have sighed in annoyance or slipped away, had Carisi not summarily brought the back of Barba’s hand to his lips to press a kiss there. He then let his thumb smooth over the peaked knuckles and thick veins, and Barba was lost.

“I know we had sex, like, not even twelve hours ago, but this is probably the gayest thing I’ve ever done.”

Barba, who had continued to type and cite legal precedence with only one thumb, laid his phone to rest on the span of blanket between them. The comment was quietly made, not in jest. It was more telling than Barba believed Carisi knew. 

He turned onto his side and faced his young man. 

“Why do you want this so badly?” 

Immediately concerned that he might spark a moment of clarity in Carisi’s mind, something to light a fire under his ass and cause him to steer his affections elsewhere--a more supple target, perhaps--Barba took the opportunity to squeeze Carisi’s hand. 

_Trust me. Tell me._

“Is it such a weird thing to want?”

“At thirty, you want your first--I presume we’re not counting all previous transgressions of thought, here--your first gay relationship to be out in the open?”

It was a hell of a thing to ask under the open sky and brilliant sun of a summer day. 

“It’s kind of like you said--I can’t keep lying to myself. If I let myself, you know, _doubt…_ ” Carisi couldn’t even bring himself to finish the thought. He’d dated women up until the moment he and Barba put aside their bruised egos and agreed to be a little gentler with themselves. He had been fast, too, to slip back into those old standards when Barba first turned his back on him. It was a life he’d known out of necessity and--with practice--genuine ease. 

And he was praised for it. His girlfriends were well-liked when he brought them home or to church. They were intelligent and pretty and fun, and it was the easiest thing in the world to tell them so. He could be kind and attentive, and other men could do so much less so as to elevate his performance by comparison. The women would always inevitably call it quits, however. Maybe they had him figured out, Carisi supposed. Maybe they just reflected his own uncertainty--he hadn’t really known what he was, either.

Carisi tried a different approach, saying: “S’why I live in New York, you know? Everything is real, there. We put up skyscrapers ‘cause we’re serious about stuff. You know, I could’ve followed a girlfriend to L.A., got a job there.”

“I can think of a few reasons that wouldn’t have worked out.”

Barba took off his hat and raked a hand through his hair again. There wasn’t a lick of product there, just the odd bit of grey to catch and hold the sunlight. The hat went back on, and Carisi thought he did the whole thing just to look sophisticated. 

“Uh-huh,” Carisi said. “Well, _at the time,_ reason number one was New York. There’s no mistaking it for anything. L.A. is sprawl. You can drive for hours, be wherever, whatever. I can’t--I can’t be like that anymore. It’s too easy. I got to be exactly what I am.” 

“You can drive for hours in New York and still be on the same block, behind the same illegally-parked moving van.”

“See, I love it. Staying power. You’re gonna know the license plate number of that van the rest of your life. Or you can get out of your Uber and walk.” 

Carisi rolled back over onto his back, and though his gaze fell into the infinite blue of the sky, he felt Barba’s eyes still locked on him. He was quiet, wondering if he’d fooled himself again, thinking he’d actually _said something_ when all he’d really done was _talk._

“I understand, okay?” His voice was soft, and Carisi knew if he had still been on his side, his words would have caught themselves on the fibres of the blanket and all but disappeared. “I see what I’m doing. You make it difficult.” Carisi heard a quiet _huh_ and smiled, then amended hastily, “To lie to myself, I mean. So. Thanks for that.”

Barba again found himself bursting with the notion that Carisi slow his pursuit of this grand new self, the version that was true and good and released his soul from its vice. He held his tongue, however, and reminded himself that suggesting Carisi join him in some shared exile was an expedient venture, but not the one Carisi needed or wanted. Whatever he found going his own way, Barba knew it would be better served with a partner. 

Barba found Carisi’s hand and gave it another affirming squeeze. 

“I live and breathe to make your life difficult.” 

-

A stormcloud moved overhead, meandering and dark with promise. It turned everyone’s heads up in reverence as it hung on just the corner of their section of sky, the part framed by the park’s trees. Some young parents by the water fixtures were relieved, seeing in it a means of escape that did not hinge on their own judgment or words. 

Barba, having finished his e-mail and some others, asked only, “Should we go?”

Suddenly a would-be meteorologist, Carisi studied the cloud and made his determination. 

“Nah. Let’s risk it.”

The cloud passed. Its darkness broke apart and turned to a haze before vanishing completely. Only Barba was not witness to its final act; hat pulled low over his face, he’d nodded off. 

He did so in a wholly acceptable fashion: the sunlight had filled him, set him up to fail when the sudden darkness swept in, cool and calm and seemingly hapless as the brim of his hat, which surely amounted to the same wonder and achievement as a passing cloud. He was reclining, his legs lifted and knees bent, and in his sleep they’d sank, refusing to rise to the occasion of his pride. 

When Barba slept, it wasn’t a simple affair. He wasn’t afforded the temporary amnesia that welcomed so many other practitioners. Barba took his worry with him, and it was a constant bedfellow Carisi knew never to question or attempt to rut out of bed. It didn’t take up too much space; Barba hugged it close.

(Privately, Carisi worried sometimes that all that worry would smother him.)

Sleeping, for Barba, seemed more like a collection of pauses than a deed done fully. And to have seen Barba realize it after the fact, one would have assumed his entire sense of self had been struck with brute force, then ruptured. And it was all over.

Propelled by a whispered word from his dream, now a memory-- _doomed_ \--he woke up, bathed in sunlight and blanketed in embarrassment.

"I fell asleep?” His mouth felt warm and dry. What with the various sweet-smelling scents planted into the earth, Barba could only guess at his breath. “Like a vagrant?"

Carisi was grinning wildly--probably had been since he realized Barba had drifted off--and it was an answer surer than any other he might give. “Guess I wore you out.”

Barba wiped at his mouth, but there was no wayward drool. He’d schooled decorum too fully into himself for any of that. 

“Let’s keep it in the realm of possibility, here. The hotel makes weak coffee.”

“No, Counselor, this one’s mine.”

“Shush,” Barba sniffed, and sat up. 

He spied them before Carisi did, the young men whose blanket they’d borrowed, and gave a tight-lipped smile--read, _a polite_ smile--as they made their approach from across the park. 

At his first opportunity, Carisi offered them cannolis.

The boys sat and introductions were made. Jacob, who was a student, wore his camera around his neck and thoughtlessly brought a hand to cradle it. Calvin had just finished his degree and had enrolled in Boston’s Recruit Officer Course, with the intention of becoming an officer of the BPD.

“No way!” Carisi grinned, and introduced himself as NYPD. 

The conversation exploded from there. Calvin asked about being a cop, and Carisi started in on how great it was, how exhausting, how helping people becomes the only salve against feeling inept in the world. It was a startlingly personal answer, Barba thought, as he glanced from Carisi’s face to Calvin’s, just to see how it was received. 

Barba knew before Carisi, then, that the kid meant to ask how it was being an _out_ cop.

Barba didn’t talk to young people, it seemed, unless they’d been through some traumatic experience or another and it was his job to convince them to answer for it in a highly stressful courtroom situation. As a result, he felt as though he meant to lie to them constantly. 

It wasn’t something he’d envisioned for himself while becoming a lawyer; when he thought of those he might represent--and indeed, those he might prosecute--he’d imagined adults. His own age, perhaps, usually older. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t known child-victims growing up--several girls disappeared from his classrooms, only to be spotted months later, a baby on their hip, purchasing formula from the corner store at an age when Barba and his friends still might be tempted by a candy bar or soda. No one spoke of these things, but there was an understanding that something had been done to her, and if the child was not proof enough, there was the look of betrayal set so deeply in her eyes that it could be mistaken only for depth. 

But then, like they said, _How could a smart girl end up like that?_

Barba learned instead that people often hurt one another at their first opportunity. 

He didn’t say that, of course--Carisi had the market cornered on terrifyingly large pronouncements. Still, joining the conversation felt like an act of heroism: Carisi tackled it gladly, while Barba committed more slowly, first speaking only when he could be his most devastating and clever. Soon enough he found himself at ease, able to dissuade his mind of searching every word for a means of exploitation. He looked not for the lie he believed was always there for him to undo, or even cared--so much--for secret truths. 

For as often as he heard the phrase _these are nice young men,_ these were, in fact, _nice young men._ This bit of company was constantly smiling, all knobby knees and draped over one another, seemingly with so little to hide already. They had questions enough for Carisi, but Barba wanted to ask of them, _Aren’t you worried? Or hasn’t it started yet?_

After listening to their flighty conversation unfold, he realized that they were already happy, and if they’d been worried at all, they’d found what might ail them and conquered it in their teens. And here they were, if not very nearly fully-formed, then at least a ready composite of who they were meant to be.

Jacob proposed a selfie to commemorate the meeting of NYPD and future BPD. 

“Like an outreach program,” he said excitedly. “Speaking of--”

He handed his phone to Carisi with the simplest of explanations-- _You’ve got longer arms_ \--that nonetheless made Carisi glow with satisfaction and Barba roll his eyes. 

It was, very simply, a delight. The two pairs parted ways--Jacob and Calvin with their blanket and the leftover cannolis, and Barba and Carisi sun-soaked and invigorated by the conversation. 

“What great kids, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

“They seemed--I dunno.” Carisi pocketed his hands, shrugged his shoulders, as if his first response to his own excitement was to contain it. 

Barba smiled in agreement. “They did.” 

-

They were hungry, _starving,_ but lunch seemed like a paltry excuse for what they wanted. In the hallway of their floor in their hotel, they made out six doors down from their room, unable to wait, but killing time all the same.

And when they did eat, it was still early, and they were again granted the company of the elderly. They ate appetizers and entrees, forgoing desert to again answer the siren’s call of their room with its fresh sheets and cleared dishes, the heavy tip Barba had left behind gladly taken in the mess’s stead. 

Barba undid still more buttons on his shirt, and opened, peeled back layers upon layers of himself, preserving nothing. Gladly, he let all that was unnecessary sink to the floor. Carisi’s tongue tore into his sly smile, wrenching it out of place, doing irreversible damage to Barba’s tailored presentation of self. 

They made a loving embrace that peaked in twisting expressions and grit teeth and woeful gasps of air, and culminated in Carisi’s peaceful sighing and search for the remote. 

“Oh, cool. They have HBO.”

He positioned himself neatly against Barba, fitting into the curve of the man’s open arm and using his heavy, heaving chest for a pillow.

“I have HBO.”

“Yeah, but you pay for it. This is better. You can feel like you’ve won.”

They watched the tail end of an old episode of _Game of Thrones_ before _The Martian_ started and Carisi felt compelled to admit he’d cried when he first saw it in theatres.

Barba did not say anything in response, much less anything else, until a quiet moment well into the movie’s length, when Matt Damon screamed and cried and gave up until he had to try again.

“Do you talk in your sleep?” 

“Huh?” Carisi frowned; he’d figured Barba had nodded off again. “You’d be the man to ask,” he added, then allowed, “I don’t think so.”

“Ah. So you weren’t asleep.” Barba kissed the top of Carisi’s head and said, his voice distractingly calm and poised, “You should tell me what it is you want to tell me.”

“Tell you…?” Carisi didn’t flounder for it, didn’t scratch at and tear into the earth in search of something buried. He followed Barba’s metrics--in bed, meant to be asleep--and hit hard upon his answer: “I love you?”

“Is it up for debate?”

“No, I--what? No. I love you. Period.” Carisi said, then huffed, annoyed that Barba had won out of him something he’d wanted to bestow with unseemly amounts of pomp and circumstance.

But he supposed feeling bullied into it was about Barba’s speed.

“Coming on a little strong, aren’t we,” Barba teased, and even for not having a clear view of his expression, Carisi knew he was monumentally pleased.

“You want me to take it back?”

“I’d love to see you try.” 

“That’s as close as I’m getting, isn’t it?” Carisi grinned, and kissed the palm of the hand resting heavy and warm over his heart. “Joke’s on you, I know what you mean.”

“Yes,” Barba said, “You've always been presumptuous like that.” 

-

Morning found them at an ungodly hour. Barba had sorted a flight back to the City, their tickets being cheap and nonrefundable and unquestioned, thankfully, by the Boston TSA. 

The process of navigating the airport, securing a seat at their gate, and boarding their flight was by no means the uneventful morning commute Barba had tried to mentally will into being. 

“I cannot believe that woman made me-- _a complete stranger_ \--hold her infant child.”

“She didn’t make you,” Carisi said, ducking his head to fit into the narrow cabin. 

Barba hauled his carry-on into the overhead compartment with some force. “No, you’re right, _you did._ ”

“And he wasn’t fussy at all! I thought you’d appreciate that!” 

“I need a Xanax,” Barba muttered while dropping unceremoniously into the window seat.

“What?” Carisi laughed first, then saw Barba going through his wallet, and ultimately retrieving a neat half of a pill from a tiny pocket of foil, and swallowing it dry. “Are you serious?”

 _A little too late for doubt,_ Barba thought.

“If it was gum, I’d have offered to share.”

“Oh.” Carisi sat down beside him, and offered the bottle of water he’d purchased at the gate kiosk. Barba waved a hand; he’d rather drown it in gin and tonic, his preferred airplane drink if only because he once saw a beautiful man order it en route to Spain. 

“Bad habit number two?” Barba guessed by the look on Carisi’s face, one that matched his reaction to Barba’s rude streak the previous morning. 

“No. It’s for anxiety, right? Which is it--the baby or the plane?”

He smiled at his own joke--a loopy, lopsided grin--in the hopes that Barba would join him. Barba did not. He was too consumed by the intricacies of his next move: he could lie, say it was one of the two, the plan being the likelier candidate. On its face, it was a perfectly excusable excuse. But what then of all his imagined exploits to places both near and far? If Carisi thought he had to medicate before every flight, he might be hesitant to even initiate the journey. Or worse, he might insist Barba not drink for the duration. 

The truth won out. 

“Neither,” Barba admitted. “It’s… going back to work after being off my game for a few days. It’s dumb.” 

He cut a hand through the air between their seats, signaling an end to the discussion. Of the fears he could name, he knew this one was particularly foolish, and did not want to be coddled because its persistence out-maneuvered Barba’s better judgment. It would take him all of a second to settle back into his work, to feed on the necessity demanded of his presence and expertise. He hadn’t lost anything of consequence in just a few days’ time. He _knew_ that.

The Xanax just made him sure of it.

Carisi took his hand--another assurance. 

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “That’s pretty fucking dumb.” He looked around the plane at all the faces heading to the same great city. He leaned back in towards Barba, his voice quiet and conspiratorial. “So… is there any upside to this? You just gonna zonk out or do you get loose?”

“Does my crippling anxiety have an upside?” Barba echoed flatly, then relented: “It’s an hour flight. Can you wait until we get to the baggage claim?”

“I feel like I’ve been waiting to get to the baggage claim with you all my life.”

“Oh, God. Look at that. Xanax makes you funny.” Barba buckled his seatbelt and made eyes at the flight attendant so that she’d remember him later when making the rounds with the drink cart. “It really is a wonder drug.”

-

Light was just glinting off the highest buildings in Midtown when their plane made its rocky landing, returning them to the hallowed ground of New York City. When they departed the airport with their bags, caps, and one another's company, it was Barba who spared an uncharacteristically forlorn glance back towards what they'd left behind. Boston, metaphorically speaking, but the airport arrival terminal doors, specifically.

Carisi bumped their shoulders together when he dipped low into Barba's space. They’d descended from the sky, and yet it was these little touches that felt like greater achievements. Frightened tourists breathing into no-drip airsick bags should be applauding _them._

“Share a cab?” he asked, like it was some sweet thing, and beyond that, said as though it was not promised. 

Carisi, a tease. Who knew? 

Barba inclined his head slightly. “Please.”

“Cool.” Carisi looked out over the long line of yellow taxis trudging slowly to meet them. “I gotta get some facetime with that beard before it's gone.”

-

Somewhere between the airport and Barba’s apartment and then his own, and the creeping day coming to light over all, Carisi felt Boston slip away. He lost it specifically, he thought, behind a couple sharp turns made around construction and touring pedestrians, themselves as idle as orange cones. 

By the time he’d showered, changed, and gone to work, it was almost as if none of it ever happened, or else he’d left it all behind. The whole strata of events would seem unreal when he and Barba next crossed paths, the context wholly professional, their joy suddenly a secret.

Carisi remembered, suddenly, that it needn’t be. He could be open if he so wished, and was granted that much and more. But the process required thought and tending, and Carisi remembered that the best photo of himself and Barba was on _Barba’s_ phone.

He smiled to himself, thinking how strange a thing it was to think he’d need proof.

Carisi dropped into the chair at his desk just as the overnight staff was taking their leave. He'd hoped to settle in, take half an hour or so to play catchup for the three days he'd been gone. His first vacation with Barba had, coincidentally, been his first vacation from work in over two years. His perpetual status as any precinct’s _new guy_ did not lend itself to freely given breaks, and certainly not the opportunity to ask for one. 

His imagined morning of proficiency slipped clear from his hands, however, when Rollins arrived, led by the twinned scents of baby powder and wet dog. 

Phone messages and circulated office memos could wait; he'd missed Rollins, and though he knew better than to offer a wealth of details about his own weekend, was curious after hers. Did she try that new Thai place that opened a block from her apartment? Was Frannie’s stomach still upset over Wednesday's clam chowder incident? How did she like the nanny she’d hired? Or was it still entirely impossible to hand Jesse off into another woman's arms, when Rollins’ own we're so perfectly sculpted to take her child into comfort? 

Her friendship was hard-won, and Carisi valued it more than he knew to name in her very presence. It would just embarrass her. 

“Hey,” he turned easily in his chair to meet her with a smile, only to see that she was sporting one, herself. And a messy ponytail, which told of the morning’s fast-approaching heat. “How was your weekend?”

“Not as fruitful as yours,” she sing-songed, then dropped the cheery facade, and hung its remnants on the self-effacing curl of her lip. “Sorry. Bad word choice.”

Whatever joke was there to get, Carisi missed it. It went clear across one of those broad barns Rollins went on about. 

He kept smiling, undeterred. “What are you--?”

“Care to explain?”

She did not need to say any more than she did, because accompanying her satisfied little smile was her phone, its bright screen opened to the media trends section of a Boston-based website, where the headliner puff piece was nothing less than the selfie taken by the young man Carisi and Barba had met in a park in Boston. The picture--and a veritable _wall of text_ from the boy’s nimble fingers--somehow constituted local news. 

His smile was frozen in place--an awkward, unholy thing, now--but his mind failed him. Carisi didn’t think into the _hows_ and _whys_ of this event, like his training as a detective had drilled into him. He was stuck, his thoughts cut at the knee and made immobile, reaching only this: _We look great together._

When Carisi didn’t answer, the expression on Rollins’ face turned worried. Her lips parted, perfectly pink and bowed like a servant before his king, and beyond that, entirely ashamed. 

She drew in a breath to feed her apology, but Carisi found his own voice, then, and it was surprisingly smooth and composed. He answered her: “I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.” 

It was a rarity, first, that he didn’t have more to say about it. Rollins pressed her mouth shut and glanced at her phone, making certain they were looking at the same bit of damning evidence. 

“Really?” she challenged, this time speaking to the smiling visage of Carisi, long arm drawn around the shoulders of the absolute last person she would expect to allow even _that,_ much less the further implications granted by such familiarity. She couldn’t help herself--she balked at the thought. “Because I would have _gladly_ accepted some convoluted excuse. Like. _Anything._ You could have told me his Uber took a detour into another _state_ and I’d have been right there with you.”

Carisi wondered if that was still an option. 

_No,_ Carisi reminded himself. _That’s not what I am. This is._

He tried to shrug, but was sure it came off over-coached and frantic. “We’re seeing each other. It’s not weird.”

“Just saying it like that was _weird.”_ Rollins perched herself on the edge of Carisi’s desk and dipped her head towards his conspiratorially. “Carisi. Seriously?”

She needed an explanation, and Carisi stumbled over the first he happened upon. 

“I’m gay.”

And just like that, he had the answer for all his life’s fits and starts. His reliance on his parents’ opinions over his own, his dedication and distraction with the Catholic church, his many exes, all the stupid questions he got to ask under false pretenses. All it took was not being afraid to know himself a little better. It was so simple a solution, he could have cried for all the lost time he spent questioning and damning himself and praying for solutions to an unspeakable problem. 

Because Rollins was smarter than he was-- _infinitely so_ \--she let the admission go without a second thought. 

“Is Barba?”

Her quick reply earned her a smile. The tension climbed down, stepped off Carisi’s shoulders and he was able to issue a word in kind.

“Enough that he’ll humor me,” he joked. It came out in one piece, which was a wonder. Carisi felt as though he should reached to pick various parts of himself off the floor. His stomach, his lungs. His heart had done the opposite, and lodged itself tightly in his throat. 

“I thought you were going to try and deny it,” Rollins admitted, and shook her head at the picture. “It’s one hell of a disguise. On him, I mean.”

“The beard?”

“The smile,” Rollins corrected, and for a brief moment Carisi contemplated that it was, in its way, the kindest compliment he’d ever had bestowed upon him. He must have looked entirely dumbstruck, because Rollins followed up, asking, “A recent discovery for you, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah, um--yeah. It sounds so dumb, though--”

Rollins shook her head, this time more assured. No more wonderment, no more befuddled teasing. 

“Not at all,” she said. “And that’s not just ‘cause you set the bar pretty high for sounding dumb.”

She watched Carisi break with an uneasy laugh. She let him take a steadying breath as he tried to figure what he was in for, now, and how to marry reality with the fact that he didn’t have time to plan for it. He teetered on sudden and drastic unease, so Rollins swept back in to rescue him. 

“So,” she said, all cool confidence and burning southern charm, “As the previously undisputed champion of office romances, I think I’m due a peek inside the circus tent.”

“Is there a ceremony? Do I get a crown?” Carisi tried to sound at ease, but he was filling fast with nervous tension. It coiled around his tongue as he searched for the perfect joke to deflect her interest. “And, no. No peeking. Pretty sure that’s something we’ve collared guys for.”

“But I’m asking permission.”

“So, voyeurism?”

“If that’s what you guys are into…”

 _“Amanda.”_ He blushed. With the incredible creation of her daughter, Rollins was used to meeting moments of impossible delight--first steps, eye contact, laughter. The shade of red that flooded Carisi’s face and bled warmth into his words couldn’t rival so much as a perfectly timed diaper change, but it came pretty close. “It’s just. _Good._ Us. We’re good.” 

“Jesus Lord, it’s serious.” Rollins pushed off his desk and dropped down at her own, mouthing _wow._

“Hey, wait--” Carisi leapt up from his seat and made a long-armed reach for her phone. He did not take it from her so much as hold it as she held it, a rudimentary attempt at silencing the thing, if only for a moment. “Please tell me perusing Boston-based local news sites is just _something you do._ ”

A hobby, he wanted to say. A very strange, very singular, very _remote_ hobby. 

“Oh, hon,” Rollins said, her eyes wide. “Bless your heart.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you all enough. The messages and comments have been incredible. I’m so touched that this story has made you feel things and reflect on your own selves. It’s beyond my ability to share just how much that means to me--think _the entire world,_ and then some.  
>  Thank you for reading. Thank you for making me feel appreciated in this little thing I do and share with all my buds.

Rafael Barba sat at the desk in his office, a smooth shave carrying his face into the world, a loosened purple paisley tie drawing it back. The tie echoed the soft touches of lavender plaited into his three-piece charcoal suit, and set him firmly into the look he had cultivated. Composed and exacting, but--for a change--practically sing-song in its cheer. The patterns harmonized, light and dark, twisting and precise, and then were altogether punctured by the blast of acid green lining the dove grey of his pocket square. In the wrong light, he ran the risk of looking like a squeezed berry, but he avoided that, first, by opting for sleek grey socks, eliminating the possibility of courting stems, and second, by never stepping foot in the wrong light.

He looked better than he had in some time. Despite the early flight, the Xanax and the early morning gin and tonic--or perhaps because of them--he looked fresh and bright, a cool figure for summer after having languished so long in winter.

Invigorated by the long weekend and the pleasant unreality of green, sunny Boston and its enclaves of baseball stadiums, university campuses, and hotel rooms, he returned to his life in the City. Amidst grand stone halls and 80’s-style blinds on his windows cutting through the smallest lick of sunlight, he found a pile of casework before him. Delving into it felt like a righteous deed--a baptism.

He seemed to hold his breath for hours, only coming up for air around one, when a knock at his office door was notably not Carmen’s perfected double-tap, but a more dire rap of knuckles against wood. _Carisi,_ Barba placed it immediately. Carisi when he wanted something but was afraid to ask, specifically.

When the man himself entered with an unexpected paper takeout bag, Barba realized he felt like he’d been waiting. He smiled.

“Figured you’d be dining el desko,” Carisi said, closing the door behind him. It wasn’t unusual for him to arrive with a few case files--sometimes decoys, sometimes not--and food. It was as sure a way as any to ply his way into Barba’s good graces.

He stopped short of Barba’s desk, neither setting down the food or dropping into his preferred seat atop the man’s desk, angled just enough on a corner to suggest ease or poor manners, and ultimately cast doubt as to which was likelier.

Carisi took a breath. Barba was still smiling.

He carried his tablet in one hand, flipped over its cover and swiped a thumb across the screen, already holding it up for Barba’s inspection. If he didn’t do this now--and fast--Carisi felt he would be complicit in a cover-up, even one that existed for only seconds, minutes, or hours more. It was an absurd thought, but it consumed him.

“Um. Have you seen this?”

He wished Barba had stood to greet him, instead of remaining sat and comfortable. Carisi felt like he was baiting the man.

He stepped closer and Barba saw the photo taken of Carisi, himself, and the young couple in Boston. They were a smiling, handsome foursome, easily positioned near one another, each filling a quadrant of the photo’s space. The fifties aesthetic of bright picnics and paired neatness gave it a very _Brady Bunch_ feel, to Barba's immense surprise and slight bemusement. It looked all too perfect, and Barba supposed this was Carisi again affirming his selfie-taking abilities with indisputable proof.

“Cute,” Barba said. The second his thoughts tipped towards how Carisi came to find this exact picture with literally nothing to go on, save for a young man’s first name--Carisi was an exemplary detective, but _really now_ \--Barba was met with the tedious beginnings of an answer.

“Look at how many likes.”

It was the tightness in Carisi’s voice rather than the product of his instruction that gave away the game.

“Oh,” Barba said, well before his untrained eye found what had damned them: a view count, so well into thousands that it rounded them off, and when the number grew, Barba could imagine nothing less than entire cities gathering to look down on them.

All the air left his lungs and for one dizzying moment Barba could not determine if the feeling would cause him to suffocate or drown--which by definition was correct? He expected the former, but would accept whichever applied.

“And it’s been shared. Uh. A lot.” Carisi's voice sank to the floor, and from there begged forgiveness. He trudged through the rest of his prepared explanation, bits and pieces he'd gathered over a morning, though he was ultimately unable to speak to the phenomenon itself. How did a thing like this--a perfectly innocent meeting of individuals, linked only by a vague semblance of self, something alike in each other, but not mirrored--find so many eager eyes?

“It got reposted by the pastry place and I guess the kid was kind of popular himself, and, uh. From there…” Carisi swiped through more windows, showing multiple accompanying articles as the thing gained traction and found a Monday morning niche. It was a harmless shred of the lost weekend, bite-sized and ready to make a sunny impression on all the working world’s morning.

Either in an effort to include them all or hurry along their passing, Carisi moved too quickly through the links. Whether he meant for Barba to see them at all was thrown into question.

“Hold on--”

Quietly, Carisi surrendered his first of many apologies: “I’m really sorry.”

“Just. _Hold on._ ”

Barba stood and took Carisi’s tablet. Silently, he combed through the articles.

He gathered it was the young man’s sincere--and lengthy--write-up accompanying the picture that charged it towards viral status. Barba read through it uneasily, sensing the humor but wary of the _joke._ He worried that was all he and Carisi amounted to in the eyes of thousands of people.

Barba released the breath he’d been holding and sat down again. The tirade was genuine, if silly. And above all else, the message was earnest. There wasn’t a word of hidden cruelty in it, just well-intentioned celebration and joy in all its absurdist forms.

Any surrounding commentary was a far cry from journalism--there was no naming of names or seeming interest in doing so. It was something to see, nothing to contemplate. And while Barba was naturally partial to the figures he and Carisi cut, he knew internet culture and perceptions of sex appeal were not on their side. The younger couple would pull focus.

He scrolled to the top of the screen and again looked at the image. Barba had his sunglasses on, and the filter was forgiving, but his smile was wide, announcing itself. Announcing _him._ His cheek was nearly flush to Carisi’s--pink, naturally--and their smiles seemed to curl into one another, as if shared.

Won together and worn together. Barba could hardly fathom the odds.

He turned his attention to Carisi who, all blue-and-crinkle-eyed, looked pleased beyond measure. Save for the smile, Carisi could have been posing for a passport photo--there was no mistaking him.

These were the details. They were so much simpler than the truth, and they were what Barba clung to. The truth was too big. Barba had to crane his neck to see it all, and even then it touched the corners of the sun and the glare was blinding.

The details were these: He was in a loving relationship. It was no longer private. People would have opinions about both of those things.

The truth was this: He was going to be okay with that.

“You’re part of a feel-good news story for a change,” Carisi said, offering up a kinder read on the situation than _we’ve been outed on a global platform._ “Who knew, right?”

“I see,” Barba said, eyebrows, blood pressure, _everything_ peaking as he returned the tablet to Carisi. “Well. That’s one way to do it.”

“Yeah?”

Barba wanted to hustle through this-- _this,_ that amounted to a presentation--and hear Carisi’s opinion on the facts presented. Barba knew his own, had surrendered to them when Carisi made himself clear that their being open was not a demand, but a primal necessity.

“Unless you have a twin brother you’d like to pawn my affections off to,” Barba waved a hand, slowly spinning his words round and round until they met up with Carisi’s in agreement. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Carisi asked again, and finally took a seat. He was nodding to himself in long and exaggerated bursts. “‘Cause, um. Fin and Rollins knew right off that it was you. But anyone else who’s seen it and knows me--and knows you, probably--have been like. _Hey. Who’s the guy?_ So I haven’t… explicitly… said. Sorry.”

For the faint buzzing in his ears, Barba wondered if he’d heard wrong. Hadn’t that been the point?

Slowly, he reclined in his chair.

“Because it’s what I would prefer or because you haven’t liked all the reactions?”

Carisi nodded--both. But he only spoke to one: “I don’t want to pull you back into center stage among cops. For obvious reasons.”

“That’s mighty neighborly of you,” Barba said, and was sure to keep his voice smooth where he knew it could skid easily into satisfied. Here were all his concerns being ratified and met, and yet Carisi’s objective was on the line. Barba frowned. “Is it--”

“What I want?” Carisi interrupted in a breath he seemed to steal out of Barba’s own lungs.

Suddenly, the prospect of being named the younger boyfriend to a high-ranking city official was no longer a mere hypothetical. Faced with its reality, Carisi found himself inexplicably nervous. He’d wanted exactly this, in every respect. Though--perhaps not so entirely. And for as often as he put his foot in his mouth with some thoughtless, over-sized piece of commentary or another, he _liked_ words, and had put thought into exactly the ones he’d use. _#sweetsummerchild_ and a swell of eggplant emojis were not among them.

Carisi exhaled. “Yeah. It is. For right now.”

“We should all reserve the right to change our minds when presented with new and pertinent information,” Barba said, so slow it seemed to Carisi like he could have lazily written the words as well as spoken them. He was ashamed to admit he could have used the reminder.

Barba continued, “Like _having_ to do something because there’s no longer a feasible means of avoiding it--rationalization, ideally. Fear, equally as potent but disagreeable by half.”

“I just want options,” Carisi said, and bit back another apology from his own lips for fear that Barba would tire of hearing them.

“I understand.”

“And, for the record, I know I sound like you. Don’t rub it in.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Barba said, and eyed the brown takeout bag. “Is that still for me?”

 _If we can do it like this,_ Barba thought, or half-thought, because the sentiment was without end. If they could smile, accept the intrusion of reality into their good fortune and carry on, then what? Notions of being better for bearing personal trials with dignity crowded society’s understanding of triumph, but Barba had never known anyone to wait at some mythical finish line and administer merits for that. Nor did one’s own body and mind reward itself for the suffering. As some point, it was simply overtaken by another, crueler twist of fate.

But Barba knew his confidence fed into Carisi’s, and that was reason enough to keep up the game.

“#eldergays,” he recited from the picture’s accompany message. Carisi was hardly elder, and Barba wasn't gay. _Close enough,_ he supposed, then frowned and took hold of Carisi’s tablet again. He reread the post.

“Hold on--am I _#peepaw?_ ” Barba unceremoniously tossed the tablet across the table. “Slander.”

He searched the bag and found options. Carisi was entirely predictable in that his attempt to give Barba the runaround was designed to literally throw him off the scent.

“I didn’t think I’d be--” _Upset,_ Carisi thought. “Thrown. By it.”

“And because you were, you assumed I would, what? Lose my cool?”

“Uh, to put it nicely, _yeah._ ” Carisi was of a mind to ask if Barba remembered his reaction to a door opened an inch too wide. Given what spelled out before them now in great, endless gasps of clickbait articles designed to feed on people’s idle curiosity, the doorway incident was tame by comparison. “There’s a reason I brought, like, four of your favorite meals.”

“To appease me or because I stress eat?” Barba asked, and because neither felt like a particularly kind rendering of him--closer to an insult than not--he said, “I’m keeping all of this.”

He plucked one favor from the bag, then pushed his chair back some and swung his legs neatly to the far corner of his desk, crossing them at the ankle. It was a show of effortless grace, the kind Carisi usually zeroed in on, eyes shining bright and focused. He liked a show.

Perhaps what curbed his interest now was that he knew he was getting two.

“You’re not eating,” Barba noticed after a time, and set his own sandwich on a napkin, even though the bread was still crisp and the ham and cheese were warmed to perfection--a phenomenon of some rarity. “I wasn’t serious, you can have something. One thing.”

Carisi put on a smile and collected a small bag of pretzels, but did not partake. He turned them over in his hands as if he could take all the nourishment he needed from the wrapper’s soft crinkling. It filled the air, at least, and made him feel like he had something to contribute when really, there wasn’t a word or sentiment inside of him he wasn’t clinging to hold onto, that he would risk losing by opening his mouth.

Barba was quiet, then. A moment of silence for the lost effort he’d made not to concern Carisi with reality.

“You’re upset.”

“Yeah,” Carisi said, and leaned instantly forward as if to take it back. “No? Um.”

Barba could see the jumble of thoughts amassing themselves like a traitorous army at the forefront of Carisi’s mind. It gave him a new weight and shifted his center of gravity. He was tipping forward and, if given the slightest push, he’d surely fall into whatever bottomless pit he imagined had opened up before him.

“The Lieutenant gave me the number to uh--what’s it called--the Gay Officers Action League. I dunno what I’m supposed to do with that. Do I--what, inform them? Do I… show up for them? I guess that’s the right thing to do. I don’t--” He wet his lips, laughed at himself. “Man. This day.”

Barba winced, then threw the effort into a smile and hoped he’d been quick enough to get away with it.

“It’s out there,” he said. “There’s no doing this over. Smile. Keep your chin up. It’s okay. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

It wasn’t in him to dispense kindness, but he could boil a tremendous thing down and make it seem simple, which was nice enough to hear amidst the noise and chaos of real-life. A long-lost skill, Barba thought he had a better handle on it now, given his surroundings. Here in his gorgeous office, he _should_ have answer enough for any problem that came through his door. He had a decorative sculpture of an eagle, for Christ's sake--that wasn’t something a man went out and bought for himself. It just appeared to commemorate his success in a field where eagles meant more than potted plants.

“I just didn’t want it to happen like this,” Carisi lamented, and towards that, Barba felt a twinge of resentment he allowed to go unexamined. “Just this morning I was thinking--”

“Don’t,” Barba cut him off. “This will be fine, too.”

He put up a good front. The smiling grip Barba had on himself loosened the moment Carisi left, and he breathed in every ill thought like they were bits of dust and rock and toxins rushing out of a collapsing coal mine. He felt himself weaken and tire immediately, and what he couldn’t take in covered him from head to toe, making his hair ashy and his skin caked and dry.

Barba googled some key words and brought the picture up on his computer, stared at it.

Image control. It would have been his immediate response, had Carisi not needed something else from him instead.

“Carmen?” Barba hated using the buzzer on his office phone to see her in, but he couldn’t very well have this conversation out in the main office, where they might be seen or overheard. He waited until she’d joined him--poise smoothing the slope of her shoulders, polite smile planted and flowering on her face, her hair a perfectly dark halo--then turned his laptop to face her and asked: “How obvious is this?”

Barba valued Carmen her for her discretion and political wherewithal. Educated in law but making a living as a secretary, she knew Barba’s cases as well as anyone, and his schedule hardly took up any time--since she followed him from the Brooklyn to Manhattan offices, she’d found that the detectives he worked with now did not bother booking appointments.

With her formal education and the one she’d had working at the City, Carmen could have made an impressive prosecutor, herself, if not for the gruesome case of hives she broke out into at just the thought. It was just as well; she preferred the grunt work, the details, the planning.

One particular consequence of her lack of practice in the courtroom was that her expressions were unmastered. She didn’t-- _couldn’t_ \--bullshit.

Barba meant to exploit this.

He watched Carmen’s brow wrinkle then smooth as she gathered fully what it was Barba had showed her, and how he’d presented it. She pursed lips before giving a half-smile of encouragement.

“If it helps, I’ve never seen you smile.”

Barba had to bite his lip to stay a more caustic reply. “Uh-huh. Keep an ear to the ground?”

“Of course.” She turned to go, but paused. “He’s new, isn’t he?”

Barba lost control of the pitch of his voice--it got itself caught in an updraft and sailed high. _“Excuse me?”_

“New to SVU,” Carmen clarified. She knew what Barba was getting at, but did not give him the satisfaction of being right. He didn’t need to know that she had him entirely figured out on that front, and could count on one hand the times she’d been surprised by his taking a night off or jogging in late some morning. Although she’d never met his partners, she knew he had a pattern and, quite simply, a type: those who valued discretion.

Carmen elaborated, “A more junior detective, even. He hasn’t been the lead on any of your cases.”

“That’s… correct. But he’s testified--” Barba stopped short and reworked his jaw thoughtfully. The number of cases in which Carisi had testified could fill a room, but his involvement was hardly unique. “Never without corroborating testimony from other detectives… And three cases in which his testimony was related to an outcry… were settled. Another one was lost--” ( _Two,_ Carmen thought, but did not say) “--and four--no, _five_ others resulted in convictions.”

Carmen nodded once. “I could pull them, if you’d like.”

She tried for nonchalant, but Barba was no fool. His hooded gaze found hers, and matched it steadily. They’d held a summit of sorts, traded in intelligence, and were now set to make a deal.

“I cannot collude with you to cover my tracks.”

“So noted,” Carmen said. “I’ll have them on your desk by five.”

“Thank you, Carmen.”

She was already at the office door, hand resting on the doorknob, her attention drawn to the exact set of files she’d start with--it would take no time at all, her record keeping was _flawless_ \--so it surprised her that she felt compelled to linger, to say something other than what could go towards solving Barba’s present problem.

“People like you, Mr. Barba. You know that, right?”

It was a kind thing to say, and maybe it was true enough among other secretaries, who saw Carmen accept Christmas bonuses and take actual, _whole_ weekends off, but Carmen wasn’t privy to all Barba’s dealings with the DA’s office. There were phone calls that came only to him, conversations that burned his ear with their haughty rhetoric and gave him whiplash from all the doublespeak. Barba went his own way too often, stepped out ahead of things and took bigger risks than were advisable. He _knew_ he wasn’t well-liked.

Barba accepted Carmen’s compliment all the same, nodding, but hinged it on a reality: “It’s not people I’m worried about.”

“Defense attorneys,” Carmen supplied, and they shared small smiles over the old joke. It was just the right degree of bitterness so as not to shorten a life by feeling it, but to thrill the system into remembering what _real_ bitterness felt like, and let it feed off the memory. This would suppress the appetite for more, later.

She waved a hand, then, like the whole thing was so easily dismissed. “People always thought you had a thing with Lieutenant Benson, anyway.”

“What _people?_ ” Barba bit off, and again had to contend with the pitch of his voice. Much to his embarrassment, it went off like a teakettle. “No. I don’t want to know.”

Truthfully, that could work in his favor. If people genuinely thought this of him and it was never brought to his attention or else made an example of, to cast dispersions on Carisi, now, would reek of sexism. It was a stretch to make on his own behalf--and an entirely crude bit of maneuvering, besides--but Barba filed it away.

“I’ll take any case right now,” he told Carmen. “Steal one off someone else’s desk if you have to.”

She brought him three to choose from, and naturally he took the most impossible one, and set out to conquer it.

-

Carisi sensed a presence behind him, heavy and looming, breath like an everything bagel. Seconds ticked slowly by as Officer Quentin Purcell stood in ample silence, willing to puncture it, but lacking the wherewithal to actively meet the conceit into which he was playing.

“Hey, Carisi, is this you?”

Carisi hardly looked at the photo Purcell had pulled up on his phone. He knew why he bothered to look at all--it was strange when he didn’t. The air it gave was expectant, even a little superior.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Went to Boston over the weekend, caught a Red Sox game.”

“They win?”

“Nah.”

“So you’re gay, huh?”

“Yeah. I am.”

He’d had this exact conversation several times over the afternoon, ever since returning from Barba’s office. He supposed something he’d carried back from there must have triggered the intrusion. Maybe he looked more susceptible to it. Maybe he looked relieved.

They made faces--all kinds--and suddenly it was as though Carisi had as much experience as a detective as he did as a professional dancer--which was to say, none. Expressions and tones were inexplicably a mystery to him, and there was nothing to be read from them that he didn’t immediately overinflate, bastardize, or otherwise misconstrue. He didn’t even have a handle on what it was he wanted from people--approval, indifference, happiness.

If there was any sense of balance to his morning, it was this: Carisi didn’t know what he wanted, but couldn’t tell if he was getting it, anyway.

“Real fucking incredible fucking news,” Carisi muttered to himself after Purcell--another well-placed “Huh” his only response--had wandered away.

Rollins smiled behind her computer screen. She’d seen the whole unseemly thing. “What’s that, nine now?”

“You’re keeping count?” Carisi teased, but of course he was doing the same, and Rollins knew it, or else she’d have stayed mum.

“Well, you’re off. It’s thirteen. Twice in the break room, once in the hallway leading _to_ the break room, and once at the urinal.” He’d hoped for _indifference,_ there, but in hindsight, maybe that raised eyebrow was _interest_ firing on all cylinders? Carisi shook his head of the thought.

“I’ve never been gayer.”

Rollins smirked, but didn’t fool herself into thinking Carisi was making jokes because he felt at all light or even particularly clever at the moment. It was reactionary at best. He took in every set of eyes boring into the back of his skull and wheeled it back around and gave it a voice so as to make it known.

“Let me and Fin buy you a couple beers after hours, huh? Fin, you in?”

Fin made a point to look at Carisi when he said, “Amanda, I’m sure he’s got better places to be.”

“Some other time,” Carisi agreed, thankful for Fin’s indelible calm and willful neutrality. The last thing Carisi wanted was to talk himself into an evening spent at some cop bar before he had it in him to know he’d feel welcome there.

Carisi felt a pang of disappointment and it took him a moment to figure out why: The last time _feeling welcome_ had been an ambition of his was _years ago,_ back when he couldn’t make it work in any borough, and he was transferring fast enough as to feasibly run out of options.

Carisi tossed a paper clip over into Rollins’ desk space, thinking he could salvage the moment before anyone saw him for contemplative and verging towards self-pity.

“I’ll hold you to that offer, though. Beers.” He threw another paper clip. “That _you_ buy.” A third. “For _me._ ”

Rollins wiped her desk clear and scoffed, “What’s that tone, huh? Like I don’t buy a round for you guys ever?”

“Oh, now--” Carisi started in, a grin spreading wide across his face.

Even Fin had to hold her accountable for that. “Hold up--”

Rollins was preparing to mount her defense when another interested party made their approach, stalling--like the nine that came before--before asking what it was they already knew.

“Hey, Carisi--”

Rollins caught Carisi’s eye. She mouthed, _“Fourteen?”_

“Fourteen,” Carisi agreed, and as the moment of normalcy he’d shared with friends was accosted by another person’s need for a piece of Carisi’s own clarity, Carisi forgot how bizarre it was that things could be terrifying and tedious at the same time. He wondered if this was how Barba felt, never really announcing himself, yet always a known entity.

He hoped Barba was having a better afternoon than he was.

-

Barba spent the day in and out of courtrooms, busy, but always making time to throw himself into everyone’s line of sight. If someone had something to say, they could gamely take their chance. He did as he’d instructed Carisi to do: kept his chin up, smiled. And between all that performing, he worked. He drank coffee and reviewed case law and scuttled old deals in favor of _shrewder deals_ and ignored his mother’s calls. All these things kept him occupied until well past six, when he returned to his office to find Carmen not at her desk, but sat across from his, the cases she’d pulled piled neatly ahead of her. She had a page of notes written--the work, essentially done.

She stood upon his arrival. It very nearly brought a smile to his face because he saw in her a strength that carried her up or sat her down. She did not wallow in matters of power, least of all with Barba, who she treated with respect, and expected as much in return.

He nodded. She sat.

He read over her notes, and though they were vast and detailed, he came away with a simple conclusion: he was in the clear.

His ethics were still shot to shit, that much was obvious. But there was nothing in his record anyone above or below him could gamely play to stifle his ascent or drag him down to their level, respectively. There was nary a loss to hang on Carisi’s shoulders or a win to undo with their collaboration. Everything was as loose as he’d been--a line Barba expected to hear out of the mouths of others when the photo had time to circulate and ferment suspicions.

What remained now was the question of tact: whose pride did he spare? Carisi’s? His own? Or that of his superior, in going to him ahead of it all, naming himself and naming Carisi, and looking a fool for it?

He began to undo the buttons on his vest so as to better straighten his tie. He did this with a deft hand, an act some would attribute to braggery, but only those who had no concept of artful presentation. There was far too much else in his person that threatened to be his undoing, or so Barba imagined, _often,_ and with a feverish intensity. But simple-minded people could manage simple math, and in their eyes Barba knew he could outweigh some of those inherent deficits. In every other respect, he had to be immaculate.

He _hated_ math.

“Is the DA still in his office?” Barba asked, his voice level, betraying nothing. Carmen opened, then closed her mouth. They’d become closer in recent months--closer still in recent hours--but Carmen still questioned her place in giving her boss an opinion when he only ever trusted his own judgment. She flattened a hand on the pile of old case files.

“I think this is manageable,” she said, and watched as something shifted in Barba’s face. She imagined a rock in his mouth, or else something just as tangible hindering his speech.

“Carmen,” he said, but it sounded like a _no._ “Last you heard--”

It was a dismissal. She ignored her feelings on that and stood, then smiled politely. “He has a nearby event at eight. Chances are he’s having a drink and entertaining in his office.”

 _Chances,_ nothing. She’d primed the DA’s scheduler in the bathroom, complimented her commitment to wearing panty hose in this heat, and the rest was handed to her.

 _It’s not ideal,_ her eyes said, and Barba knew she was right. Even if he managed to pull the DA into a confidence, it would be broken the moment Barba turned his back. He’d become a part of the night’s entertainment. Alcohol and the company of a man’s peers--men so powerful they could joke about their mistresses in the company of their wives--were aphrodisiacs towards secret-spilling.

It was doubly delightful, Barba realized from afar, to tell secrets only to those who could do the most damage with them. And still a greater joy to tell another’s secrets and not your own.

Thoughts had crept into his mind all day, found him as he turned sharp corners and made grand entrances. It was a question of naming himself and potentially going against Carisi’s wishes--as they stood, ever-changing--or keeping quiet, and hazarding discovery, anyway.

He carried these two evils along the length of a political tightrope. If he told the DA what to expect-- _what he’d done_ \--he could appear to be asking for shelter and quiet, which could be misconstrued as a favor. Forget any goodwill he’d built up with his winning streak--this was something different. This was a certified risk, one he’d already taken and one, now, in presentation. He could be ceding to the DA that he could be cowed, if not by outsiders then by the machinery of his own position. Threats against his life hadn’t done the trick, but this--his reputation--was another matter. Barba would fall on his sword for that.

There was an alternative: he could forgo tact and double down on circumstance. He could live an octave louder than he’d done, and when people made jokes, he could show his frustration rather than his wit. But Barba knew that way held Carisi as a bargaining chip. It was entirely possible that, with this shock of fame, Carisi would realize he did not want to known in this capacity. He could shut down.

He could agree with Barba’s early ruminations on his character.

He could leave.

And the alternative to the alternative was most damning: Barba, left with nothing, would be forced to ask forgiveness for his torrid little fling. When Carisi went unnamed in this version, now, it was out of pity.

“Mr. Barba?”

Barba heard himself respond to Carmen--a word of thanks, a dismissal, a claim that he was going to take a walk to clear his head. Another word of thanks for her work with the files.

His tie was straight, his vest buttoned. He grabbed his suit jacket on his way out the door.

He curled around a corner and took marbled stairs in the same quickened pace Barba found he traveled most anywhere, save for his own home. His hand dragged along the banister, willing calm, poise, and more than a little forethought.

While still undecided, he started towards the DA’s office, anyway, thinking proximity would force a solution. Barba did not fear these company men, though he supposed in a certain light his true feelings were just as simple: he hated them.

They wielded their power for the benefit of themselves and their new friends. Preservation of the status quo was shorthand for cooperation and foresight. Those who played the game were rewarded handsomely, and there were times in his career where Barba was given a taste: fantastic vacations and _welcome aboards_ as he stepped foot onto a yacht steered by men who made a great show about their expensive cars, but probably hadn’t driven their own selves in decades.

Those rewards were rare and their glow short-lived. Barba wondered if, should he ever own the title, he’d be any better. Did these positions flush their holders with such power as to make rightfulness and sense so impossible? Hadn’t Barba tempered every wild feeling he’d ever had with ambition? Would the desire to be held in esteem for his good work not keep him in line?

Or would it ruin him?

Idly, he wondered if it helped that he’d never had an affinity for infidelity, hard drugs, and fast women. He supposed it didn’t matter; he was standing here anyway, contemplating his fate, and feeling as though he was taking in all the air from the hallway, then recycling it, making it over-warm and wet with his own breath.

His phone buzzed to life, and Barba had a call from Carisi weighing heavier in his hand the longer he did not answer it.

He glanced at the time and figured Carisi was calling to ask after his dinner plans, where they could meet or did Barba want Carisi to cook? Or such would be the guise under which Carisi sought Barba’s thoughts on the day, its revelations, and response. Barba foresaw food getting cold and filling his belly, instead, with the warmth of several smooth glasses of scotch.

Rather than any of that, Barba’s first impression of Carisi was harried. Just in the man’s breathing and greeting-- _Uh. Hey._ \--he sounded genuinely upset, going on to talk in hushed tones, and even then fading in and out of earshot. Barba placed him in the subway.

“My mom saw it,” Carisi said, and the rest spilled forth: “Actually, Gina did, and she sent her the screengrab, as if my mom knows what to do with a screengrab, so there was all this _information,_ you know, without _context_ and of course Gina would do that, and of course my mom would--” When Carisi stopped for a breath, Barba found himself taking one, too. He was still stood in the hallway not four doors down from the DA’s office, having this conversation.

Or rather, being on the receiving end of it.

When Carisi started up again, he sounded embarrassed but intent, like he _should_ have to answer for all things outside of his control.

“Um. She asked that I not call you ‘Papi.’”

Barba made a face like he’d been served bleach in an Old Fashioned glass, all cut crystal and banded with gold, so beguiling that he’d mistakenly taken a sip.

“I would… echo that request, if ever you did call me that,” he said, trying to mask his revulsion with gentleness and ease. He hoped Carisi would mimic this much, and relax. “Let’s compromise: we can agree that you _do not start.”_

For feeling like he’d taken all the air out of a hallway, Barba was satisfied with his remark.

But he didn’t get so much as a chuckle. Instead, Carisi continued, lost on another tear, recounting the inevitable slip from _What is this, Sonny?_ to _**Who** is this, Sonny?_

“And then Bella--who ought to be on my side, you know? We’re closest in age. If she wasn’t my sister, she’d be my best friend. I’ve gone to bat for her so many times! No loyalty, none--she pipes up, starts a group text asking everybody if they’re dense, ‘cause, _clearly,_ it’s _the lawyer._ The lawyer _Sonny works for,_ she says, which, you know, _I don’t,_ but way to make it creepy, Bella. Right on.”

“Carisi. _Sonny._ ” Barba had a rule: Sonny’s preferred name was only to be used in times of great need. “Slow down. I thought you’d told your family… something. I’ve been operating under the assumption that you told them _everything,_ actually.”

While Carisi groaned in frustration, Barba took the opportunity to look around--he didn’t want to be seen loitering. That was a fool’s play.

“I have told them--some. Enough. My mom--I’ve told her so many times that I’m…” Carisi couldn’t say it now and, in retrospect, could never say it. He remembered his exact explanation. It was practically an old standby for as often as he broke into the slow, gentle tune: _I’m seeing somebody. Somebody different than anyone I've seen before. I really like this person. This person, who is smart and admirable and generous. This person, who is a man. Ma, did you hear me?_

He sighed, feeling like a failure, but knowing that despite the evidence to the contrary, Barba didn’t see him as one.

“She doesn’t, uh, fully grasp. The situation.”

“Trying for the soft touch,” Barba said. A tactic he wouldn’t have guessed was in Carisi’s arsenal. “How did that hold up?”

“Never held shit.”

Barba huffed a knowing laugh. He listened as Carisi went quiet, then extended a couple of polite _sorry, excuse me_ ’s as he found a more secluded section of the subway.

“I gotta see her tonight, explain some things. Again.” Carisi sounded more sure of himself, at least. Barba wondered if the opinion of his family held more weight for Carisi than that of any NYPD regulatory committee, or if it was just a nearer problem for him to face. Barba wanted to ask, but held his tongue.

He looked at where he was now, ignoring his own mother’s calls and skulking around a hallway, dressed for a showdown but no closer to knowing how to deliver it. He was in no position to chastise Carisi for how he approached this matter, who he sheltered first, and to whom he felt most answerable.

Carisi asked, “Do you mind if I come over to your place after? It might be kinda late.”

From Manhattan to Staten Island and back--it would be considerably late. If it wasn’t nerves then it would be all the drinking it took to calm them that kept Barba up.

All the same, he was relieved: here was not a man looking for a swift exit.

“Of course. But,” The notion found and gripped him before Barba was able to consider its merit. “Do you want me to… join you?”

“Aw,” Carisi replied, breathless and stunned. “Wow. Hey. Thank you.”

The roof could have been ripped off the courthouse walls and drawn in a Santa Ana wind from clear across the country for as cleansed as Barba felt, being thanked. Carisi even gave the tired little laugh Barba had been hoping for, though he didn’t know what to make of its appearance so far removed from the joke. He sounded relieved, and Barba could picture people on the subway witnessing this vast parade of emotions--frustration, shame, annoyance--cap off with something genuinely touched. If they bothered to lend their attention for that long, Barba hoped they knew: this frantic young man would be okay.

“Thank you. Even if you’re just saying that.” Carisi sighed, pleased and warm. “ _Thank you._ But absolutely not.”

“Oh thank God,” Barba said, genuinely relieved, himself.

They ended the call on another bout of Carisi’s weary laughter. Barba wished he’d said something more formative, or at the very least _helpful._ Certainly, Carisi could have used a little guidance. Here was a grown man off to explain his love life to his parents. A grown man who had to make palatable the fact that it was likelier he’d lied all his life than he was lying now, or was confused, or was being fooled.

Barba imagined if Carisi was on the subway, then he was heading south to take the ferry. Would he have a ride from there? Why didn’t he just drive himself? Or carpool with Bella, if this was to be a family affair? Barba shook his head clear of those thoughts; they were needless. Surely, Sonny Carisi knew how to get home.

All the same, Barba wished he had the means to see him there safely.

And if he were worth all the trouble himself, Barba thought he ought to know the words to go with the deed, so that Carisi could speak proudly and without reservations. He envisioned packaging them neatly and passing them under a table with a wink and a nod, and no further explanation that, _we look out for one another._ But Barba was embarrassed to admit he’d never known them, himself.

Friends and the occasional colleague, he could answer with a witty word and make them feel special for knowing at all. But there was something about telling one’s parents that carried a different weight. Carisi, Barba knew, would feel that burden. He was answerable to his parents, who would undoubtedly take his silence personally, as if Carisi himself had not been mystified for all of thirty years. It was an impossible thing to make acceptable: _Mom, Dad, this is who I am. I’ve only been actively fighting it my entire life, but rest assured it is a Good Thing and I’m having a Great Time._

There would be insinuations of fault and the rampant casting of blame. Carisi would deny it all.

In Barba’s case, his mother had met him halfway--she was to blame, but it was his fault--and they’d left the matter there.

And his _father_ \--heaven help if Carisi ever sought insight to or modeled his approach on Barba’s admission to his _father._

The man had been sick, dying. An ugly process that fed slowly on his mind and temper. Barba was angry, likewise, that it was taking so long. The man muttered some empty insult after his son’s tardiness-- _“Lousy cocksucker can’t be bothered to see his own father.”_ \--and Barba had thrown it back at him, simply and without a lick of malice because he’d had twenty-six years of this, and would not accept a second more. With the end so close he could hear its lily-white keds squeak against the linoleum hospital floors, Barba became reckless. He became _eager._ And what his father wanted of him or thought of him no longer entered his mind. (The fact that he and Lucia were visiting him at all was beyond comprehension.)

Barba had turned the page in a deposition he was reading and answered coolly, _“No, dad, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m an excellent cocksucker. Ask anyone.”_

It was a neat moment, if only for all the ends Barba found tied up into it: the last time he saw his father alive. The last time his mother spoke of him in Barba’s presence. The last time the old man raised his hand--and in it, the cane propped against the side of his bed--and breached whatever levels of decorum Barba imagined could have existed--though they never had--between a father and son.

It was the last time Barba wished to think of him that way. He was merely a man, striking another man, wanting to cause pain, burn humiliation into flesh, and draw blood.

And he’d done those things, and then some: shattered bone, necessitated stitches, and bred the kind of lies and excuses Barba would fed to colleagues with an ease that both surprised and frightened him.

His father didn’t die so soon after that. He lingered. Barba wore his bruise to the funeral.

For many years, Barba didn’t like to think that it had ever happened. He struck it from the record, chalked it up to the price of doing business. One for the road.

But the memory set Barba’s teeth on edge, now. Years later and he could still feel the ache in his cheek and persistent click of his jaw, the ghostly sensation of eyes on him--his mother’s, horrified. A nurse’s, pitiable. And his father’s, hard and hungry for the fight his son never gave him.

Barba didn’t have words for Carisi. _Don’t let them hurt you? Hit you?_ He could not warn against these things and assume Carisi wouldn’t understand their telling. Nor could he, in good conscience, let the conversation rest at the point at which Barba expressed relief for not being made an explicit part of it.

Barba typed out a brief text message, deleted it. He typed it again, feeling like a failure all the while, and hit send. He went back to his office, then, to retrieve his briefcase. He would not be dropping in on the DA to explain himself, not preemptively or otherwise.

Barba would not present himself for inspection, to sit in another chair at the behest of a man with undisputed power over him and await a verdict. He decided to go and do what as needed of him, not that which was expected.

He would go back to his apartment and wait for Carisi.

_[I love you. Good luck.]_

-

Carisi sent a text when he arrived at Barba’s apartment, but let himself in. It was their preferred system, though one that still carried the weight of the circumstances under which it was developed. The text--a simple, _I’m here_ or _here_ or, once in a drunken haze, _it me_ \--was its own warning, however casually administered.**

 _“Don’t worry”_ seemed to preface every message.

Barba’s didn’t. He kept where he was, laying in bed atop the sheets and comforter, nothing stripped back, because he did not want to sleep. He was ready, though--showered, dressed in only pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, mouth minty-fresh and insides warmed-over with a glass of scotch he’d drank with some care for the timing. He could take his own self out, so to speak.

But he wasn’t ready, and the realization as to _why that was_ was lethal.

Barba felt a twinge of mild disdain for himself-- _Christ, am I a sap?_ \--when forced to reckon with this particular hang-up: he could not end a night short of meeting his expectations. Chief among those was the company of Carisi, with whom he needed to speak to, whose life now cut and intersected with his own. Soaring higher than expectations, now, were his desires: for _Carisi,_ now turned a degrees towards _Sonny,_ who he wanted to sleep with, and see before he did, and ask questions of before that, and hold throughout all.

There was a distinction to be made. Barba busied himself with those cosmic questions of intent and necessity. What did he want and what did he need, and how thoroughly fucked was he when the line he drew between the two had peeks to shout from and valleys to rest in?

And what was called for, after a day such as theirs? A morning that split open their lives like a carcass for scavengers to feed on would likely not lead to a simple, quiet night.

Sex was a possibility--something to take their minds off themselves and gear their bodies towards carnal satisfaction and biological completion. Still, Barba doubted it. The situation didn’t lend itself to wild abandon, and Carisi would be arriving from an evening at his mother’s, which wouldn’t do much to inspire the mood.

They’d talk, plan. They’d have all the necessary and tedious conversations required of them. Barba sighed and looked at the expanse of bed, empty save for his own presence. He’d probably have to get up and sit in a chair or on the couch and model himself into the picture of serviceable calm. He could be that for Carisi--gladly--but he was quite comfortable where he was.

Here was a place in which Barba had seen Carisi touch himself, touch Barba, seen him trot out tired jokes about wet wipes, but use two to clean his face and belly, or wherever Barba had deigned to ruin him.

Barba smoothed a hand over a wrinkle set by a plastic file box recently dug out from his closet. He’d found the Halloween photo, and before everything they had yet to discuss, Barba wanted to make good on his promise.

Carisi entered the apartment with his key, and while Barba listened for him to toe off his shoes and abandon his jacket, he allowed himself the opportunity to eavesdrop on the muttered conversation Carisi was having on his phone.

“You could do me a solid and tell me what Fin meant. Stop--please stop laughing. Whatever it is, I promise you, it’s not that funny.” Carisi arrived in the doorway, shirtsleeves rolled precariously high, his tie crooked, hair a windblown mess, face pink and lips chapped from the winds following the ferry. He looked as though he’d been through the wringer, but despite all this, he smiled for Barba. “I gotta go. Yeah--yeah, I’m home. Okay. Thanks again.”

Barba held the photos to his chest, and a hand to stay any word from Carisi.

“You owe me,” he said.

Carisi sank tiredly against the doorframe. “What do I owe you?”

“Your life, several times over.”

Carisi grinned, promised, “It’s yours.”

He entered the room, took a knee onto the bed, and then moved easily into the space Barba made for him. He was handed a series of three photos, and Barba expected unbridled laughter the moment he surrendered them for inspection.

But Carisi was silent.

The mustache--as promised--made its reappearance. It was everything else--and it was _everything_ \--that stood now to make a triumphant debut.

Besides the mustache and slicked-back hair, Barba wore impossibly tight white pants--jeans, Carisi realized, though they might as well have been a second skin for as easily they hugged his long legs and cradled everything between them. A matching white tank top revealed a nest of chest hair, dark and thick. (It seemed a different texture than what Carisi knew now, which meant Barba had likely gone through a period of shaving it, and the present result was a touch more sparse.) A bright yellow jacket rendered in military styling rounded out the trifecta of the Freddie Mercury ensemble, though Carisi was admittedly surprised Barba had one in his possession. But it had been the early nineties, so what did Carisi know of the availability of such styling? At the time, his mother was still buying--and letting the hems out of--his pants.

In the photo--which looked to have been taken at the party’s entrance as a thing of some traditional mandate--Barba struck Mercury's famous pose, a vision of a jutted hip and far-flung arm. He looked enough like the singer, then, that he must have captivated other partygoers. They must have delighted in Barba’s own subversive streak, evident because who else but a true character might parade and peacock and celebrate in the chaotic vision of such a figure? Who could see or hear the man’s oozing sexuality and think, _For an evening? I can match that._

And who among them could arrive at a Harvard Halloween party as a globally famous, bisexual, recently deceased performer and themselves meet one of those criteria?

The second photo found Barba’s Freddie Mercury joined by another student’s Elvis Presley, with Barba’s arm draped around the other boy’s shoulders, his middle finger casually thrown, making an unwitting addition of the simple-minded Elvis, who wasn’t privy to Barba’s antics. Carisi was heartened to know that the dark slopes of color that hugged Barba’s eyes and made them impossibly hooded and piercing were evident even in his twenty-something self. He probably had them as a toddler.

His easy, self-indulgent smirk was no bit of costuming, either. It was something he’d grow into later, but the beginnings were there.

Stood in profile in the background of a shot of two nuns, Barba wasn’t the intentional focus of the third picture, though he demanded it. The banana yellow military jacket had gone, and the all-white outfit’s only accessories were the mustache and a studded leather strap around Barba’s arm, poised high, hugging his right bicep.

It was, at once, _absurd._ And _yet,_ Carisi wouldn’t put it so far and away from the $500 cufflinks, silk ties, and rainbow selection of suspenders that amassed themselves as Barba’s ornamental pieces, all of them worn with distinction, like military honors.

_What a beautiful young man._

Carisi hated to think of him languishing, _bored,_ under the weight of someone who did not appreciate him.

“Oh my God,” he said, finally breaking free of the pictures’ fantastic trance. He looked between those perfect remnants of Barba’s past and the man himself, and in the empty space between, felt as though he’d been cut from a tether and was hurtling through two decades’ worth of mottled wardrobe changes. He imagined there was never again such a flawless rendering of snug, stark-white denim, but gladly traded that for seaworthy knit sweaters on yachts, an ever-growing collection of suspenders, and tuxedo suits tailored to fit.

“Look at you. _Look._ Are you looking?”

Carisi dragged a hand over his mouth, which felt about as dry as wool. The images fanned his curiosity, and Carisi needed their cool winds.

“ _God,_ ” he repeated, suddenly wistful. “I wish I’d known you then.”

“Uh-huh. When I could pull off a tank top?”

Barba felt the subtle sting of undue resentment, but could not help himself: that Carisi wished to have known him young was unsettling. He’d been a handsome young man, but a different one. It was true, he’d never put himself in the sights of would-be murderers, then, but he’d felt like one. He’d done everything his childhood friends accused of him: smiled and performed for those myriad of white faces who held the interlocking keys to his future. He liked to believe it was always a conscious effort, something he could turn like a switch, but soon enough it became second nature. And for Barba to truly commit to the effort, the person he’d once been had to go.

In that Harvard crowd, he’d just as well cut his own throat to silence himself.

It was only in his adulthood that he began to strike back, to rise to every ugly word roped around his person like a noose.

 _Spanish Dandy,_ he remembered bitterly. It dribbled off the lips of a powerful man--and a rapist besides--with so rich a Southern accent, Barba might have believed his heart attack play. The phrase was spoken in front of the Deputy Chief Dodds and New York’s most loathed defense attorney, no less. _Nos vemos en los tribunales,_ Barba had said, cool and easy where a sharp _Fuck off_ would have felt so much more satisfying. He was sure to imply the latter, at least.

He was so much better, now, just for having the last word--snatching it, even, out from under those who expected him to stay where they’d placed him. Even for that, for whatever good it did, above all it strengthened his soul. It was a return to basics. As a kid, he’d stood up to every insult. In his neighborhood, he’d had to. It was worse to stay silent and accept the abuse--that much would garner a reputation as a faggot _and_ a coward. Going to Harvard, he’d tempered those inclinations, believing them to be baudy and beneath this new world carved out of marble and time itself. It didn’t take long to realize the commentary had been flipped, but the insults and innuendos were still there. He stopped answering them directly, obfuscating instead.

He was tired, he told himself. It didn’t work. Why fight it.

And so he'd continued well into adulthood: leading the life he wanted, dating and fucking in and around his career as a prosecutor. Yelina had been right--he loved the law. Earnestly and truly above all else, he loved his work and its importance. It was scripture and deliverance, and what mortal man or woman would stand tall enough to cast a shadow on what was holy?

More and more, his silence--and the often-accompanying solitude--felt like an easy choice. Coming back from it was hard. Coming into his own had been near-impossible the first time around, and Barba supposed it was providence, now, that he should delve into the task and have help, someone to double the wins with and halve the losses.

Carisi shook his head. His finger traced the slope of Barba’s hip in the first picture, and he imagined that stretch of the denim like bleach-white bone, and thought Barba looked unbreakable.

He corrected, “When you were happy.”

“Are you kidding?” Barba sputtered, and was relieved. A misunderstanding--that was all. He’d fooled another one. “I was miserable in my twenties.”

He took the photos Carisi was hoarding, all of it unwitting evidence.

“This was all a joke to me. People laughed. I laughed. It hurt. I was an eager participant in all this, and I knew why. It was expedient.” Barba knew himself all over; his discerning nature was too great to be wielded neatly. He supposed he kept quiet all the same, that one niggling bit of reasoning holding over all: he didn’t often like himself. And they wouldn’t like him if they knew him, either.

Moving past his hangups and doubts, then--or truer still, moving alongside them, recognizing their presence and working in tandem to stymie their power over him--changed his life, gave him a means to funnel his anger into work ethic, his doubts into ambition.

He liked himself more and more, while people like Carisi came along to ratchet up the stakes towards _love._

“Thirty was an excellent year, I shit you not. Forties are off to a good start, too.”

“Attempted murder aside,” Carisi piped up.

“It’s had some ups and downs.”

Carisi took the photos back. Whether he was playing at confident or only felt that way with the help of costuming and alcohol, Carisi nonetheless liked seeing that wide smile on Barba’s face. It seemed wild and unabashed, and in splitting open the younger visage of the man’s handsome features, it changed the whole structure.

“You could still pull off a tank top.”

“I know,” Barba said, huffy that there should ever be any doubt. He’d prefer a week’s notice, but trusted in the strength of his arms and broadness of his shoulders to carry him through.

“You gonna show me, sometime?” Carisi leered, then revisited the third photo, and pestered Barba with compliment after compliment, each more ridiculous than the last. “Man, and your ass looks the same, too. Un _real._ Keepin’ it tight.”

There had been a long time--dismal, in hindsight--wherein Carisi was chaste with his praise of Barba’s body. When they were just getting off, when Barba’s life was caught under threat and under protection, neither amounting to a necessary whole, and the man’s own mind was bifurcating right along with his sanity, Carisi hadn’t thought it was his place to indulge. Now, he was given all that he wanted, and as much as he wanted of it. He could draw Barba’s arm around him when they slept, spent, and let his body learn its weight. Carisi could smooth his hand over a swell of thigh, and it was welcome. He could grip as much ass as his hand could fit, and expect endless opportunities to gather what spilled out of his reach.

He’d seen a beard grow on this man’s face, and every morning tasted its progress.

Barba saw what he was doing, of course. He let his arm be taken, he let himself be touched and wordlessly praised. He did the same in turn but sometimes--often, now--he wondered if Carisi wanted sweeter words and promises, or simply for Barba not to live so much in his own mind.

So it felt like an undue failure, again, when instead of wording his answer--something devastating and haughty, as smug as it pleased Barba to make it, or as kind as Carisi deserved of him--Barba only laughed, stifled, weary, and tired. He drew himself closer to Carisi until they shared proximity and warmth, the meeting as dire as though they had been bereft of it for a century rather than merely a day.

Barba kissed Carisi, then--impossibly soft, entirely quiet, at just the corner of his mouth. There was no sudden impulse to account for it; the gesture name naturally, as unremarkable as a breath. Barba was still tending a smile--runoff from his laughter--and Carisi felt the slick of bared teeth before the ghosting of lips. Carisi was thoroughly moved. The gesture left him with a bizarre, over-warm feeling that flooded his chest. He wanted to strip out of his clothes, but couldn’t see past that end. Barba, certainly, was never shy about making his intentions known, yet a second kiss was not forthcoming, and no hand sank low to rouse him.

His sister Gina had been engaged ten times, _sure,_ but Carisi still believed her to be an expert in all things pertaining to the heart. She’d told him of her first love, a thing of such production that even hearing it second hand felt like the moment in an old movie where the acting stops and the music swells, and everyone knows what’s coming. _And he just arrived, stage right,_ she’d said--never mind that the set up in the arcade where she met this middle-school Lothario would have put him coming out of the boy’s bathroom-- _And I was stolen, ya know? Right outta my shoes by this guy, who was one of those people you feel destined to meet and lose your heart to. Ya know?_

Carisi had been eleven; he’d had no idea.

But he was coming around to it, now.

Carisi coughed, cleared his throat, and must have felt like he ruined the moment because he covered his face with both hands.

“Sorry,” he said through his fingers as he dragged his hands down to show himself and air his contrition. He rested one at his throat and began to tug his tie loose. “It’s been…”

Barba lent a hand to the cause, and began undoing the buttons on Carisi’s shirt. “I know. It’s been a day. And I’m sorry, but it’s killing me--your conversation with Rollins. What’s this about Fin?”

Carisi snorted. “I don’t even know. He just shook his head at me, said something like, _What do I keep telling you people._ Rollins laughed--is _still_ laughing. My best guess is he’d tried to reason with her about Nick. I don’t know. Oh, there was a time he thought me and _Rollins_ had a thing, so. Maybe that?”

“You’re all a rather… intimate bunch,” Barba said while feeding his hands into the waist of Carisi’s unzipped slacks to shimmy them off.

“He says, while taking off my pants,” Carisi teased, then added with soft-held delight, “Welcome to the club.”

At least Carisi was pleased in that regard--he wanted to be honest with his friends and colleagues, who were one in the same. For as much as a simple photo and a colossal outing had shaken the very earth under their feet, Carisi found glimmers of golden light in the result. His friends knew a more genuine version of him, and it didn’t hurt that he looked pleased beyond measure--and more to the point, _good_ \--in the circulating evidence. For him, there would be no shy admission made over one too many beers, no overly-crafted explanation reeking of uncertainty. And for what it was, Barba could reconcile expectations with reality, and celebrate in Carisi’s quiet triumph.

Still, Barba knew he’d miss the sloping, easy silence they’d had. The kind so perfectly sculpted so as to lend itself to the curve of his skull and shoulder, even the jut of his nose and bow of his lips. Barba felt as though he could lay himself to rest in that space, but where he saw it for cozy, Carisi knew isolation. It was a mere difference of opinion and Carisi won out, Barba reasoned, because he’d wanted it more.

The furtive little world into which their bizarre romance and budding relationship was born and occupied was now torn asunder, and they’d have to pick up their supplies and survive without shelter. Barba did not doubt their capabilities, but then, he’d never seen the fun in struggle for struggle’s sake.

He supposed there was something inherently Catholic about it all.

Under his shirt and slacks, Carisi’s body was still warm from his jaunt across the city. He needed a shower, but if he stripped down to the freckles on his shoulders and the white of his ass, there would be no coming back from it. So Barba picked Carisi’s body clean of only the unnecessary layers. The remaining undershirt and boxer briefs had the feel of a parka in the summer months, but Barba couldn’t have those too and still maintain a conversation. There was one yet that stood before them.

And Barba had held back, willed himself not to ask what was written across Carisi’s face as a great trial. He’d let them both pretend, but couldn’t any longer.

“How was dinner with your mom?”

He felt like he was twenty again, so uncertain of people’s attitudes, and yet wholly dependent on them. He guessed Carisi felt very much the same, and endeavored to be kind.

Carisi did not laugh or sigh or hedge or do anything to clear a broad path for his response to waltz down on. He was--for once--considered in his remarks, careful in their marking.

“I was so scared,” Carisi said at last. It seemed a sadly appropriate thing to say in his underwear. He searched for a hem or a button or something equally omnipresent to fiddle with, but in finding nothing, was forced to elaborate.

“I didn’t--I didn’t think I ever could be. You know? Scared to go home.”

He sounded frustrated with himself, which stressed to Barba the depths of those delusions he had about being out, open, and happy. In Carisi’s mind, each fed into the other. Barba wished he’d had the sense to impress upon him the cold reality: being out and open sometimes led other people to steal your happiness. They had none of their own, and smelled bravery like blood in the water, and sought to hobble it. It was ugly, but it was true.

“I thought we were gonna talk about me--or worse, talk about _her,_ failing me, or whatever she thinks this means.” Carisi shook his head, smiled sadly. “We didn’t. We talked about you.”

Although he didn’t like the sound of that, Barba said nothing. Instead, he took the photographs from Carisi’s hand and set them on the bedside table, joining them with files he’d brought home from his office. He made space for himself and Carisi to rest, untouched by remnants of the present or past, work or play. This was neither; this was a young man’s fate strung up into the rafters, held there like a dream escaping a sleeping figure as wakefulness dawned.

“It was weird trying to make her understand. I had to talk about us as if we weren’t you and me, you know? Like, I had to explain to her how this could have happened, ever, in any reality.”

“Could you explain it to me sometime?” Barba teased, and got his reward: Carisi rolled his eyes.

“I had to tell her how I’d had the biggest crush on you. How I thought you were _so_ smart and _so_ badass. I told her you were kind of mean to me, but I figured it meant you liked me too, a little.”

“Taking liberties with the truth, I see.”

“I told her how you helped me with law school,” Carisi continued, and here he set his gaze intently on Barba. “More than just the shadowing, more than you know. Just watching you in court is a masterclass.”

The conversation--or what Barba was hearing of it, now--felt imbalanced. He wanted to step into it and course correct the wealth of details and looping direction.

“If I were your mother,” Barba started to say, then frowned. “Don’t think into my saying that,” he added firmly, and continued, “But if I were your mother, I’d be a touch concerned by how prominently I’m featuring in this story. Where are you?”

Carisi nodded--in the moment, he’d sensed that, too. “I told her how you grew to appreciate my intellect.”

“Oh Lord,” Barba huffed, “Does the truth mean nothing?”

“I told her how when you were scared, I helped with that.”

All of Barba’s cool assurances and ceaseless wit failed him. He was aghast that someone might now know him in the very state he never again wished to know himself--not just afraid, but angry and hurt. And ultimately _cruel,_ because it was the only thing he could force against the gaping mouth of terror that wasn’t swallowed up whole.

“You told her this explicitly--?” He heard his own voice fracture and all the air in him whistle out. But then there Carisi was, his presence suddenly jarring in its strength, as if they hadn’t already been lying in bed together. His hand traveled down the length of Barba’s forearm to find its partner, and the grip was iron.

“Not all that,” he promised, and Barba could just picture it: Carisi tying himself in knots to both explain their true meeting while still shielding Barba’s reputation and ruined pride from undue exposure. It was a flash of his arrogance, perhaps, but as far as Barba was concerned, an Italian mother on Staten Island didn’t need to know how far he’d fallen away from himself, or how long it took to gather all the pieces up again. That was _personal,_ a matter between a man, his unavoidable witness (because like all men, Barba was the kind of fool to instigate a love affair amidst a culling), and man’s overpaid therapist.

Carisi continued, undeterred, "I told her you were brave, and I helped with that, too.”

Confidence had overtaken him, and Barba felt himself warm over with pride for this younger man, who’d done greater things than he knew.

“You did indeed.”

“And that you did the same for me,” Carisi said. Then, his expression changed. It drew into itself and became contrite, as if he’d avoided one pitfall only to stumble into another and betray a cherished secret. “I said that we love each other. That this is okay because we love each other.”

It hurt Barba’s heart to hear it parced so plainly. _Even if we didn’t,_ he nearly said, simply because it was right, but caught himself, knowing now wasn’t the time for semantics.

“We do.”

“She told me that she loved me, over and over and over, like I must have looked like I didn’t believe her.” That, for Carisi, had been the worst part. The next breath he took rattled down inside his chest and waited there to be expelled. In that moment, there was nothing else to Carisi beyond speaking and breathing and remembering.

The breath reappeared, drawn backwards and upside down, and on it was the only piece of certainty Carisi could cling to: “I know she means it.”

“Of course she does,” Barba said, but couldn’t help but feel like an old eccentric. He wanted to disappear into the hills with his fortune, like the wealthy in California did. The New York way of doing things--building a skyscraper to escape into--wasn’t his style. Besides, he thought Carisi was the type to take to endless greenery and horizons untouched but for the natural earth. He’d forget all about the city and in an afternoon, would never want to return there.

Barba handled himself as loosely as his fantasy, asking dumbly, “So. Things are okay, then?”

_“Um.”_

A scratch lit Carisi’s throat, like the first hint of something living there. And though it sounded like a cold, it was most certainly a lie.

“Yeah. It’s gonna be. I don’t know that she wants to meet you, though. Not just yet.”

“Whenever she’s ready,” Barba said, because he _should_ be an afterthought at this stage. What mattered was Carisi and the relationship he could build anew with his family. “We’ll all go to Mass sometime.”

That earned him a soft snort from Carisi, who was reminded of Barba’s hastily-made offer to join him that night. In light of a second, though, he was struck by the possibility that Barba was _genuinely willing_ to see both through. His dread and displeasure at the very idea was equally apparent, but neither stole worth from the sentiment. Barba wasn’t happy to do a lot of the things he did, but he’d done them.

Carisi buried his head against Barba’s chest, as devastatingly kind a gesture as Barba’s kiss had been.

_“Thank you.”_

They stayed that way, silent, Carisi curling around Barba and Barba holding him in position: an arm drawn loosely around boney shoulders, open hand spread over the expanse of Carisi’s back, feeding off the warmth radiating there through the thing undershirt. Another lay across his own middle and set itself with a grip on Carisi’s arm just where it split from the shoulder. Carisi was so slim, Barba’s fingers wrapped easily to touch his thumb.

It was a moment of reprieve cut like slack from their day. This was what was left after everything else had happened, and it calmed both men to think this was what would have happened, regardless. They’d return to the city from their fieldtrip, neither brokenhearted.

Still, Carisi couldn’t stop his mind from churning out thoughts, much less bite them back.

“It’s weird, though,” he started in again, and Barba listened patiently for the point, all the while knowing Carisi would only ever step around it. “To be a man, you know, not to be a kid, and still feel like…”

And the look on his face was strikingly familiar, but not for the reasons Barba expected. It wasn’t one _he’d_ ever worn, to be sure. Carisi didn’t have a mask to let slip. What Barba saw was the same dull discernment of consequence as when Carisi spoke about his time working Homicide, about the women and how finished they were, cold and bruised and slick with blood. But still _pretty,_ because Carisi could never let that detail go, he had to bear witness to that last cruel detail amounting to preparation.

Carisi didn’t know it, but he’d been preparing himself for this his entire life.

And though Barba knew well enough what it was to be grown but made to feel small in explicitly _this,_ he still held his tongue, and waited.

“Okay, so, my mom. She took the one thing I told her and extrapolated to, like, the ends of the earth. Suddenly it’s as if she’ll never have grandkids, never mind that Bella’s already given her one, and Theresa and Gina could be out pulling their weight, considering they’ve got the hardware.” It wasn’t what he really meant. It was crass and simplistic. Still, Barba waited.

“This was _never_ a problem when I wanted to be a priest, by the way.” And just as quick as if had arrived, Carisi’s temper had exhausted itself. “Must be because it was a secret. I guess I never thought I’d kept it that well.”

 _Close enough,_ Barba thought.

“Such is the power of denial,” Barba said. “Your own, that of your parents…” At Carisi’s apparent confusion, Barba reasoned, “Surely you see it all the time.”

“People denying something horrible, _yeah._ But this isn’t _that._ ”

“No?” The response came gifted with a twisting, ugly little smirk Barba hated was such a part of him that he couldn’t will its absence or water it down. However pretty and exculpatory Carisi’s sentiment was, he felt it for a lie. “You don’t think they see you settling for so much less than you deserve?”

“‘Mothers,’” Carisi mused, and in the tone alone Barba knew he was being simultaneously quoted _and_ mocked. “‘They like to think they can only see the best for you.’”***

“That’s absurd. What idiot said that?”

“Oh, you’d hate him. Sanctimonious prick, this guy. Ass like a peach, though.”

“So long as there’s one redeeming quality.”

Now that he was already sat to attention, Carisi found himself poised--practically _in position_ \--to curl around and box Barba in. Their chests met as Carisi guided their mouths towards another kiss.

Carisi wondered absently if his mouth tasted bad, if he shouldn’t have snapped it shut and buried it under the front of his shirt while taking the ferry. Now, he’d brought Staten Island back home with him. For what it was worth, Barba did not appear to suffer any lack of consideration.

“Mm. There could be two redeeming qualities.”

“Oh?” Pink colored Barba’s ears and throat, made brighter by the dark flash over his green eyes as his pupils spread, eager.

“Yeah. If this guy… with his great ass… were to get me a beer right about now.”

Barba drew back fast enough to bump the headboard. He gave Carisi a look of flattened incredulity and, if such a thing could be rendered into a living beast, here it was _dead,_ glaring down at Carisi through Barba’s eyes. His mouth twisted, kiss-slickened lips drawing back like a trigger readying to fire.

“Whatever mind-blowingly profound blowjob that could have been? Is gone. It has disappeared into the farthest reaches of our galaxy’s ether, never to be known by human flesh--yours or anyone else’s. You’ve killed it. That blowjob is Matthew McConaughey.”

“He didn’t die in _Interstellar._ That’s just one interpretation.”

“You’re right, he’s haunting a bookshelf. Life finds a way.”

“That’s _Jurassic Park._ ”

“Do you ever wonder why we never argue about the films I like? Because they’re excellent.”

Carisi rolled his eyes and flopped back over to his side of the bed.

“Absolutely. I _loved_ watching Joaquin Phoenix fuck his iPhone.”

He was still grinning, pleased with the night no matter the direction it took. He smiled wider, remembering some night--and, God, was there ever a time he imagined losing track of the nights he spent with Barba?--when they’d watched _Her,_ and Carisi had gotten a rise out of Barba, toying and teasing, _Do you want me to roleplay as your Blackberry later? Beep boop. Error. Oh, my trackpad’s **stuck.**_

Barba had tried _so hard_ to be offended and failed miserably. It seemed to be a habit of his.

Carisi goaded him, “How about that beer, though?”

“Because I now need another scotch to contend with the unfathomable depths of your hubris, I will consider doing you this monumental favor.”

Carisi laughed freely; he’d never thought to want mystery in a lover, but not understanding what the hell Barba was saying gave him a sweet taste.

The minute Barba swung his legs off the bed and disappeared into the kitchen, Carisi regretted making him go. Where the warm light of the room met the cool darkness filling the rest of the apartment, there was a soft discrepancy in the air, like an eye inching shut and seeing through a spread of lashes before it did. In the light, the darkness became an obstacle. Barba crossed into that space and Carisi watched him lose the light. His head was tipped slightly low, his shoulders sinking forwards rather than drawn straight and proud.

Carisi knew the hour and the weight of the day both hung heavy over their shoulders, but still, he thought Barba looked sad.

“Hey,” he started, but spoke too softly to be heard. Adrenaline dried on his tongue, and the words stuck themselves in it like fingers begetting heartfelt sentiment in wet cement. Carisi didn’t even know how to finish that thought, anyway: _Wait. What’s wrong? Come back._

The second Barba passed through that disrupted space between the bedroom and the rest of the world, Carisi shucked his shirt off, tugging it clear over his head and discarding it to the floor. Barba, stood in the doorway with his scotch in one hand and Carisi’s cold beer in the other, raised an eyebrow. He did this only, and for no other reason that it was near enough in _proximity_ to his lips, which themselves had the capacity to smile, Carisi would gladly, gladly take it.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. Really.”

“It’s hot out,” Carisi complained as he accepted the beer and immediately pressed it to his throat. There were freckles across his shoulders, pooling into the juts of his collarbone, undoubtedly earned over childhood summers spent outside, burning, then peeling, then turning ghost-white in time for fall. It was a more innocent rendering than what Barba knew: that elegant slope of bone making for a salty bite during their more carnal happenings.

Carisi drained half the bottle. Barba watched his throat do all the work, and for his own good was noticeably more patient with his scotch, in that he did not chug it like he thought the glass couldn’t do the work of keeping the drink in one place for him.

“Once they understand, though--”

The words felt out of place, hijacked from their initial sentiment and laid flat here, amongst bedsheets and beer, in wholly unfamiliar territory.

Where better to tell a man there was hope--hope!--for understanding and acceptance, two things Barba had weaned himself off of long ago. Those opiates were gamely offered, no less, on behalf of an older generation with a smiling, 6” genetic product of a conflict of interest.

But he was _so_ certain, and Barba knew he’d wait a lifetime for this to come to pass. It was a little heartbreaking, a little awe-inspiring--this glimpse of the devotion Carisi had in his faith, in his family, and now in Barba.

_It’ll happen, you’ll see._

“I got everything I want right here.”

“You mean the beer and someone to bring it to you.”

Barba’s eyes, Carisi was pleased to see, were back to being shiny and bright.

“I mean, _technically_ \--”

It was easy to joke. Easier than most things, which was some miracle for them both to land on. They fell into it, touched the familiar strings and made a song. Straying from it became its own task, and if there was energy in Barba yet to see it done, he fed it along a deluge of scotch to smooth its way.

He left the empty glass on the bedside table and looked sidelong at Carisi.

“How are you?” Barba asked again, sort of drawn and lost, like he suddenly wasn’t sure he was entitled to this information. What were his means? A kiss? A beer? A place in bed? Which would he be least horrified to raise in court in the case of Barba v. Carisi’s Mental State? “Aside from your family. How are you… at work.”

Carisi shrugged, put on a brave face. “It is what it is.”

“That’s never good,” Barba pronounced, rolling his eyes and--Carisi believed--looking sad again.

“It’s not bad,” Carisi said, and followed up quickly with, “I’m serious. It just… threw me a bit, there. To start. S’just people I don’t really know giving me a reason not to get to know them further. Kind of neat.” He took another sip off his beer. “And it’s out of my hands, which is good. It’s own kind of good.” He raised the bottle again, but lost the temptation. “It’s a relief not to be able to hide, ‘cause I think I would have done that.”

“What can I do?” It felt strange to ask, but Barba realized he didn’t know. Would Carisi take what he was given and run with it, or shelter in place with all that was left? Selfishly, Barba wanted him to take cover, and to keep in his company and none other.

But he knew, even thinking it, Carisi would never.

“Um. Stay out of it?” Carisi winced first, then looked relieved for having said what he meant. “I’m serious. Don’t ask that kid to take down the photo, or subpoena him to do it, or anything. Don’t get involved, okay?”

“I like the photo, too,” Barba said quietly.

He then rolled over from his side onto his back. It was the least bit of privacy he could afford Carisi, a kind of preset before they met again to state their arguments. And while Barba wasn’t going to shout his intent from the next room, he could give Carisi the feel of it, anyway. Barba stared up at the ceiling and Carisi was left to look at him--or not--only if he so chose.

His voice distant, tucked away somewhere as if his words were still only thoughts, Barba continued, “I want to show up for you. You could be a mensch, take out some of the guesswork and _tell me how to do that._ ”

Brandishing the photos of Barba’s Freddie Mercury get up, Carisi said, “This is a good start.”

But Barba could wait out the good humor, and found it took no time at all to dissipate. Carisi was left hollowed-out, his voice inexplicably tinny, as if it was held on a string down the length of his esophagus and he had to manually pluck it when it was his turn to speak.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle. Or the Lieutenant isn’t handling for me,” Carisi said, and shifted so as to better sit up and supply the discussion his physical presence.

This was a conscious choice. Over the course of a single day Carisi developed a strange tick: he found himself shrinking back. He’d surprised himself with the corner of his desk digging into his side, or the absurd thought that the hallways throughout the precinct seemed wider. He’d started, identified, and sought to remedy this issue in record time.

“Most of it is okay, you know? Fin and Rollins--they’re the best. And some people have, you know, said something nice. Or said nothing, which is also nice. Other people...” It was the attention, paired with a frown or a muttered word towards a conversation in which Carisi would unwittingly star that unnerved him most. Carisi wasn’t sure which he’d rather: that he had a sixth sense about people staring at him, or it was a mere matter of odds, and of _all_ the people staring at him, he was destined to catch a few in the act.

“It just kind of sucks,” he determined, and added flatly: “And I know you told me all this before.”

Barba was quiet for a time. Carisi wasn’t annihilated by the experience, but he hadn’t come away clean, either. His ideals were a little singed, his pride sweetly bruised. He remained hopeful, however, and took care not to pick at and polish and favor the chip on his shoulder. He brushed it off instead, again and again, quick as he discovered its reappearance.

It was admirable, Barba thought. _Tiring,_ but admirable.

“It's not as if you didn't listen, and this is your punishment. Those kids didn't know.”

“I don't blame them,” Carisi was quick to say--fast, earnest, a _plea._

To Barba’s ears, it had all the hallmarks of a Hail Mary--a thing to be said, again and again, so that its meaning might become known, realized, and practiced with greater ease.

“Please tell me what to do,” Barba said. “The only time you’ll ever hear those words from me. Make it count.”

Carisi smiled genuinely, shook his head. He smoothed a hand down the length of Barba’s arm. “Just this is good.”

“Well. Until it isn't.”

Carisi huffed a laugh, then turned slightly into Barba’s warmth, thinking, _When will this ever not be the greatest thing?_

But his expression slowly sank, and while he’d been relentless in warding off the ill feelings of others, he fell hard and fast for his own.

“I feel like I lied to them. Those kids. I told them all of it was possible.”

“It was a kind thing to say,” Barba insisted. “And for them, maybe it will be.”

Carisi nodded and was silent for a time. Barba thought they might even doze off like this.

“How about you?”

Carisi had taken care not to sound overly concerned, but Barba knew better. It wasn’t as if the bag of favorite meals hadn’t given him away like Sunday potluck food poisoning. Barba told him the day had been relatively quiet.

“The hat, the sunglasses… I dodged a bullet, so to speak.” Barba wasn’t particularly proud of that one, nor his next admission: “It’s a question of optics, now.”

“Optics,” Carisi echoed.

“I told you people more or less know about me. If anything, most think I’m gay.” Barba was met with a steady, studious look from Carisi. That wasn’t the issue, and they both knew it.

When he was usually bursting to be correct, to spout truths like a leaky fountain, Barba felt like this much had to be wrung out of him. “Ethically, this is all very murky. Iffy. I certainly don’t have a history with fraternization, so that’s a plus.”

“Yeah, you don’t really get along with others.”

“Also in my column, the fact there have been rumors about myself and Lieutenant Benson.”

“Oh, yeah,” Carisi interjected, grinning broadly. “I’ve heard a few.”

“What remains to be seen,” Barba continued, pointedly ignoring Carisi’s jeers, “What I haven’t done--haven’t got _the balls_ to do--”

Barba, frustrated, fell off the tight assembly of words and lost himself to space. New York was full of those little crevices. Beds, too. Every good lover seemed to fall right in.

He took a moment, recalibrated.

“The D.A.,” he said, his quiet and coiled voice slowly losing traction so as to expand with his thoughts. “If I go to him, inform him, am I asking permission? Or worse, am I apologizing? If I go ahead and inform casually, let the information travel as it would, and myself show no concern for its knowledge, am I seen as a rogue agent? A provocateur? Someone ultimately unfit for the office? And saying nothing isn’t part of the bargain.”

“Yes it is,” Carisi said at once, then his furrowing brow forced his eyes shut and he was a picture of regret. He abandoned his beer to an empty spot on the bedside table. “I’m sorry. This was--I shouldn’t have asked anything like this from you. I don’t know your boss.”

 _A little late for that,_ Barba caught himself thinking. He countered it with, _You’re a little old for **any** of this, Rafael._

“Thank you for the vindication, but,” he threw his voice into some airy, easy state, “No. I'll figure it out.” It hovered there for a moment, weightless and good, if only for practice. But determination alone couldn’t sustain those heights, and Barba soon faltered. His voice came back down to earth and fell into one of those lovely cracks.

“I suppose my real concern is you,” he said, weak for the thought. “How you’re handling the attention.”

It was some cruel blessing that Carisi understood him and Barba wasn’t forced to spell out his ugliest doubts.

But it was a goddamn _miracle_ that Carisi, _having_ understood him, didn’t then _make_ Barba spell it out, as penance for thinking so little of him to begin with.

“Wow. Hey. Way to be vague and ominous as all get out, there.” Carisi doubted himself for a moment, and considered the potential blow to his pride if he was wrong in his assumptions. He decided clearing the air was worth the risk. “Raf. I’m not going to leave you.”

“Oh, please,” Barba dismissed, and rolled his eyes, but was relieved. He was so shocked, too, by the sudden lightness in his chest that he feared he was having heart palpitations.

Carisi raised both hands to rake through his hair, and for a moment was gone again, disappeared not into a lover-frequented crack, but thrown back into the day he’d had. “I mean, yeah, today was rough. I wish I’d actually had lunch with you instead of… I dunno, running off, thinking I could go deal with it.”

He added, “Do whatever’s best for you. I mean it.”

And once more, “It’s been a lot, though, huh?”

The comment spanned months.

Barba clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth, like the matter could be made playful.

“Death threats, attempted murder, false starts, and mass public outings aren’t the norm, no.”

“As if this started with the threats,” Carisi said, shocked that Barba could be so willfully dense. “And you calling me, and me coming over, and staying over, and coming back…” It wasn’t the easiest memory to smile at, but Carisi managed. “I told my mom it was day one. I meant it. First time I met you, I couldn’t even speak. It was all over for me.” Forget smiling--Carisi outright laughed. “Man, that banana-colored suit.”

“Banana?” Barba repeated, his voice sopping wet in an ocean of offense. Had Carisi met him in a fever dream? “It’s _cream._ ”

Carisi continued to smile, wistful and sure. “Yeah. That banana-cream colored suit.”

Barba was of half a mind to venture into his walk-in closet and pluck the very suit, maybe pull a color swatch to match. But the desire to be right was tempered by some wonderment on Barba’s part.

“Day one, huh? That makes you look desperate.” Barba was back to teasing until the reality spread open before him and he found cause to be offended. He supposed it was his own fault--he was always looking for it. “But of course your mother wouldn’t see it that way. Carisi. That makes _me_ look like an _imbecile._ ”

“I mean, your words, not mine.” Carisi retrieved his beer, and took another swig even though it had it off. “But that’s when I knew.”

“Well, bully for you,” Barba said, the sharp draw of his voice undercut and halved by an unexpected--and totally mortifying--yawn. It was this, he’d later think, that caused him to overcompensate his physical truth with a psychological one: “I literally needed someone to hold a gun to my head.”

It was an ugly thing to say, made uglier by the simple fact that it was the truth. Uglier _still_ because it came to Barba so easily. The awful thing he’d been forced to endure hadn’t left him; it was at the forefront of his mind, balanced on the tip of his tongue--always.

And Barba knew he was made weak with the effort and work it took to pretend otherwise.

He sighed, rubbed a hand down his face. His insides turned cold and hard and came away bare, like a once-fruitful landscape met with a sudden and damaging overnight chill. He wanted more scotch at the same time as he promised himself he’d take a break from it. Embarrassment and shame flitted across his face, pinching his brow and making his eyes once-wet and clouded. But nothing stuck. He smiled a wane little apology for Carisi, who understood him, and shook his head-- _You don’t have to be sorry._

Barba coughed to clear his throat, then started to ask, “You smell like murder on the high seas. Are you going to shower, or--?”

“Let’s just sleep.”

As Carisi went about tugging down the sheets and _putting him to bed,_ Barba knew he owed this man a phenomenal debt of gratitude. Every modicum of kindness he returned would be a paltry thing until he put in the time and effort to render his love as huge as he hoped it could be. A great, but not _impossible_ task lay ahead of him.

He had, after all, a fairly high opinion of himself.

There was nothing he couldn’t make work for him. He’d salvage this moment and forge a path forward, then pull Carisi through once the progress was made. He’d see that their lives were better not because they struggled, but because the struggle was worthwhile, and minimized by the wealth of goodness imbued into every moment they spent together.

He’d realize that future tomorrow. But, for now, he slept easily in another man’s embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SHOUT OUT TO THE BEST OF THE BEST, slashmyheartandhopetoporn. “It me” is all you.  
> *** A line from Crush Ripe, Serve Cold. 
> 
> Also, LMAO I’m a fuckin liar. I had 10 points plotted for the final chapter, got through 3 of them and was 16k deep. There’s one more chapter to come.
> 
> FYI: The picture may not be working, so here's the text:
> 
> **96k like this**
> 
> Calvin and I met this #papi and #sweetsummerchild at the park today!! For real, the sweetest couple. Total charmers. We shared our picnic blanket & they shared their @MikesPastry cannolis. What I wouldn’t have given to have seen couples like this when I was a kid! Could have saved me (and my mommmm) some grief that I’d be haggard and miserable and alone or d e a d by the time I turned 18 (lol k this still needs work. JUSTICE FOR #CLEXA). AS IT HAPPENS, we can be happy and successful and out and proud! All of those things, all at once. It was especially gratifying for Calvin to meet another cop. It’s important to see yourself where you want to be, and to know that someone else has made the journey. There’s a future to be had, boys & boys & girls & girls We’ve got to be out there living it. #goals #justsomeguysbeingdudes #dudesbeingguys #guysbeinggay #nypd #bpd #eldergays #peepaw #whiteboy #goodchums


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE. And I've got your readers to thank for keeping it fun, keeping it bizarre. (TO THAT POINT, Luzé, you’ve got enthusiasm for days and your comments mean so much to me. :') 
> 
> slashmyheartandhopetoporn put another goddamn idea in my head so we'll see if there is indeed more to this series.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it.

Barba felt a rush of cool air under the sheets. It brazed a naked thigh, itself the strange product of Carisi wanting to fondle him but, rather than do the work of coaxing Barba out of his pajama bottoms, simply scrunched up the material sleeving the right leg until it reached desired hotpant length. Barba felt like half his asscheek was showing, for as much of it was met with the cold. 

“Are you serious? Carisi. _Carisi._ ” Barba threw an arm back into the frigid air, and felt nothing. Carisi was just beyond his reach. “Are you erecting a tent? What are you doing?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” The sheet came down, finally, but Carisi wasn’t under it. Barba felt lips press a kiss to the shell of his ear and Carisi muttering, “I gotta go.”

“It’s--three in the morning,” Barba grumbled, glaring at the small radio clock sat across the room on his dresser. It was that or blind himself with his phone. “ _Where_ do you have to go at three in the morning?”

He couldn’t see it for the dark, but Barba intuited that Carisi was sat on the end of the bed, bent, gathering his clothes from the floor. Slacks, shirt, socks--he shook them out for whatever good he thought it would do. Barba didn’t know why he bothered; everything would have to be dry cleaned, and Carisi kept an extra suit in Barba’s hall closet (lest its dullness infect Barba’s own striking collection). 

He could-- _should_ \--have just left it. 

Barba said this much through a yawn, but Carisi continued to tidy his mess, and while doing so shared an explanation as to why he felt compelled to do this in the middle of the night.

“My dad _finally_ got his flight sorted out this afternoon. I’m gonna go get my sister’s car, pick him up.”

“Just… call a cab for him.” Barba was too sleep-weary to consider the geography of Carisi’s plan, though his first instinct was to doubt it. He asked what he figured Carisi was really after, instead, that he might find reason in making an unholy circle around the island in an effort to arrive at the airport just shy of daybreak: “You really want to talk to your father about this right now?”

“Better to get to him before my mom does.”

Barba was well awake, now, but feigned sleep and said nothing. Maybe that was what gave him away--uncharacteristic silence when met with Carisi's wild plans and heartfelt intentions. 

“I think it’ll be easier with him, actually. I’ve always been closer to my mom, you know? So I think that’s why it hurt her more.”

Barba _wished_ he was asleep. He wished he hadn’t heard that kind of rationalization spilling from Carisi’s lips at an hour they should be dead to the world and its incessant trivialities. He imagined the practical consequences of keeping his silence: Carisi could do as he pleased, and while Barba would not urge him on, nor would he propose an alternate course. Both leveled even the notion that he might lay claim to any inferred or imagined fault for stopping him--or not. And for whatever the outcome, he could take Carisi's side alone.

It was all too considered, which of course stirred in Barba's conscience as predictive guilt. 

He wrenched himself off his side and clear around the face the opposite direction. He stared at the pale figure Carisi cut into the dark, a looming spectre, like the kind of ghost his grandmother always believed in. _Only those kind to us,_ she'd promise when Barba was young and frightened enough of living people, nevermind the dead ones. She swore up and down that the dead had no reason for vengeance; it was love, rather, that summoned their presence and drew their light. 

Barba raised an arm and rested it against his his forehead, as if he needed to shield his eyes from something bright. He asked, “When does he land?”

“Five.”

“Sleep another hour. You can take my car.”

“Your car, that even you don’t drive?”

“A conversation starter, even. Open with that.” 

Barba hurled himself back over to his preferred side, drawing up more than his fair share of sheets and comforter as he went. He was only satisfied when the bed dipped and Carisi settled in alongside him once more. 

Carisi wriggled in as close to Barba without sloping over atop of him, though it was a narrow contest. 

“Hey,” he said, his voice a conspiracy whispered against Barba's throat, “You trust me with big life decisions.”

“If you make a big life decision with my _car_ you’d better get it detailed, after,” Barba muttered, and felt besieged when a long arm drew itself around his middle, and warm, steady breaths ghosted over his ear. 

They slept an hour and a half more, and Barba saw Carisi off when the first gasps of pink daylight began to creep upwards into the sky, which still hovered dark, deep, and black.

Barba never wondered--hazarded, really, was the word--that he’d fallen in love with this man because he thought it would save his life. That he harbored some overarching _intent_ would require planning and foresight, and Barba knew that game from jump. It had been his idea, many decades ago, to make end-of-year, fair-weather friends with the lucky few in his elementary school who went home to apartments with air conditioning units. Barba was the shrewdest of fourth graders, as his mother liked to remind him with a taste of an overheard discussion Barba had with his friends Eddie and Alex. On the cusp of one of New York’s hottest summers to date, his winning argument was this: _So what if Terry Froeder eats his boogers and smells like ass. You want to live to see September or not?_

He smirked at the memory, but the gesture was too open a thing, and Barba succumbed to another yawn. 

At half past five, he found himself unable to return to sleep. Carisi’s absence upended his peace and after some tossing and turning, he surrendered himself to wakefulness. He puttered around his apartment, absently put Nina Simone into the air and kept the volume low, little more than a deep and sullen hum. He tended to the morning’s tasks: email, coffee, and an expertly chosen suit.

All answered, drank, and worn before eight in the morning.

No, Barba would never intentionally do _this._

-

 _Optics,_ Barba thought as he drained his second cup of coffee. _Fuck ‘em._

He had court at nine. He breezed in on an easy gait and a satisfied smile, made his demands and won himself a sweet little deal. His opponent knew his track record, particularly of late. Barba saw it on the man’s face--the drawn, twisting look of a man who never so much as wrestled with his pride as he had the thing under his thumb at all times. He wouldn’t surrender himself to the humiliation, though the argument he made to his client was this: Take whatever Barba offers or risk a weighty conviction. 

What he _meant_ was this: _We’re fucked._

What the defense attorney--Paul Daley, who made his fortune defending the lowest low-lives from the wealthiest families-- _said_ to Barba as he was relieved of his client by a hulking bailiff and those gathered in the gallery behind him were muttering angrily to one another, was this: “Don’t you get tired of fucking guys in the ass, Barba?”

Daley was a loudmouth even when he did not intend to be, though that wasn’t the case, here. He projected his comment not at Barba, but for those riled interests behind him. If they couldn’t get a win, they could be made to feel like Daley wasn’t to blame for the loss. It was the fault of this other man, and here was all the more reason to despise him. 

The judge heard it, surely. But it wasn’t her place now to speak to decorum in her court when such remarks were made after a case’s conclusion, and Barba didn’t miss a beat waiting for her involvement, either. 

“I’m happy to give your law degree a break,” Barba said coolly. He collected his documents, sliding them into his briefcase, and snapping it shut in one smooth gesture. “I assume that’s what you use it for, if not to serve your clients’ interests.” 

He smiled serenely and strode at his most leisurely out of the courtroom. 

Holding his ground came second nature to Barba; his back was straight and lined with steel, and he did not naturally bend to cower. Not before an audience, anyway. It was his heart that was weak, not his spine. 

And that which wasn’t natural was easy, and did not necessitate his pointed involvement. So long as he didn’t look _inherently ashamed_ to be standing upright and breathing, every repressed sad sack who didn’t know a view of the world from anything other than missionary position would think he’d set a parade route through the courthouse halls. All Barba had to do was maintain eye contact, and it would be nothing short of a grand announcement.

Because people knew. It came to them a day late, but the matter had not passed without interest. 

Barba’s colleagues were generally an older set, and word eventually came up through the interns and filled the hallowed halls of whatever room he strode into. He didn’t shrink from it, and out of practice tried not to hear it, either. He stood, chin raised, and gave his most polished smiles and unbothered retorts. He gave the impression of never having known doubt or disgrace, and when people saw that in him, it silenced their own. 

And however they were met, Barba could always answer for an unkind word with something doubly as devastating. What really got to him, instead, were the _looks._ Thrown over shoulders hard enough to induce whiplash or else threaded through a crowd, Barba felt the constant onslaught of interest upon his person. It was as though they half-expected Carisi to be adhered to his chest in a Baby Bjorn, or that the evidence was otherwise on him. 

Barba returned to his office to escape the glare. He tacked on the need for another cup of coffee so as not to feel bullied into seclusion. Even then, he would not find it. 

Rita Calhoun made an appearance. There was no other word for it, given the way she hung like a Botticelli painting in the doorway, commanding Barba’s attention in a sleek blue suit. It had the sharp lines of menswear, but was raised like royalty to glorify her particular kingdom. 

She looked incredible, and Barba could appreciate that they were of a similar mind on such things. He straightened his own tie--a handsome number patterned with blue-and-green plaid--out of habit. That his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and his jacket and vest were draped over a nearby chair did not, in Barba’s opinion, detract from his composure. The bold navy bars of his suspenders cutting down the stark white of his shirt was its own bit of showmanship. 

Calhoun arrived to take an opportunity to gawk at his foolishness in person--or such was Barba’s take, now that his patience was wearing thin. 

Instead, she only looked mildly disappointed. Barba had a crass word ready on his tongue-- _we’re not attached at the dick, you know_ \--but, in all of three words, she upended Barba’s frustration with all the staring. 

“Oh,” she said. “You _shaved._ ”

It was a kinder explanation than Barba had afforded himself. He could have laughed, but the inclination sank under his prideful desire to preserve his indifferent front. To that end, he smirked.

“Should I grow it back?”

“It was very distinguished. I almost didn’t recognize you.” 

“A backhanded compliment from Rita Calhoun. It must be morning in America.” It was as good as an invitation, though Calhoun never needed one to stalk into Barba’s office, pointy heel after pointy heel. Barba gestured for her to take a seat, but she made her way to his comely coffee set-up, instead.

“Two sugars?” Barba observed from his desk. “Has life got you down?” 

“If life had me down, I’d be at your bottom left drawer. Lord knows you’ve worn the handle to splinters.”

Barba wisely made no comment as to the finely aged contents of that drawer. He asked, “Have we got a case in common or is this a social call?”

“No case yet. You live to see another dull, unremarkable day go by without the heavenly light of my legal expertise.” She threw a look over her shoulder and gestured, “I just came by to see the midlife crisis growing like a weed on your face.”

“I could dig it out of my bathroom sink,” Barba grinned. “Only for you, Rita.”

She dropped a hand to her hip, throwing back the length of her suit jacket to better accentuate her slim waist. It wasn’t a conscious act, only a curated one. She knew how to maneuver in their world, a deed best done through flaunted secrets and showmanship. 

Here, she summoned both. 

“Won’t your young man be jealous?” 

“Are you kidding? He’s met you.” 

“You’re a dog, Barba.”

“Woof.”

Rolling her eyes, she finally took a seat across from Barba and sipped the coffee she’d fixed for herself. She raised a perfectly sculpted brow and asked pointedly, “The long weekend, huh?” 

Finally, Barba set down the pen he’d been using to mark up a pile of witness statements, lest it be seen as a crutch to hold up a conversation he didn’t want to have. He chose instead to engage, to speak plainly so as to dispel any doubts that he might not. 

“The cardinal test of any relationship.”

“A relationship, huh?” Calhoun asked in the same wry tone. “The weekend sealed it?”

Barba wasn’t so easily drawn into a damning line of questioning that he’d give her that much. Primly, he answered, “My weekend was very pleasant, thank you for asking.”

She tutted and blew on her coffee. Barba doubted she’d even drink it; it was her prop, the entire pretense for her being in his office. 

“I knew, obviously. In case you thought you had anyone fooled.”

“There was no conscious fooling intended,” Barba lied. He carried it off well, though, and thought Calhoun would have the grace to excuse it. 

She did not. 

With a self-satisfied little smile, she said, “Uh-huh. Have you told your mother?”

“Excuse me?” Barba asked, incredulous. Calhoun took that moment to rise from her seat, all fluid motion so smooth and unbothered that it seemed as though her suit hadn’t even wrinkled when she sat. The move forced Barba’s eyes to follow her. 

“I saw her downstairs,” she said smartly, then winked. “Thanks for the coffee.” 

Barba set his jaw.

An esteemed colleague, respected in her field, feared by those who went against her--and a _grown woman_ besides--had taken time out of her day to visit him and ask after his relationship all in a concerted effort to tell him, _You’re busted. Your mom’s here._

In hindsight, Barba couldn’t say he was surprised.

He straightened his tie--what little bit of preparation he could get away with in the time allotted. Calhoun had left his door open so when his mother arrived soon after, Barba heard Carmen greet and attempt to stall her with small talk. It was a valiant effort, but a fool’s errand if ever there was one. 

Barba, who had been avoiding his mother’s calls, supposed it was only natural that he should now be forced to receive her in his office. It was positively cosmic, this humiliation he’d ultimately brought upon himself. He stood to face it.

Abandoning the relative safety behind his desk, Barba positioned himself at his office door, a sloping tree poised to fall. Carmen glanced up at him, curious, but the question died on her lips as they answer arrived in a pair of heels and flurry of maternal umbrage. 

“Mom?” Barba asked, as if there was any question. Nevermind that he’d heard been told of her imminent arrival; it was the lore of his old neighborhood that she announced herself like a spirit. The air changed, and she flashed into being under the stink of heavy laundry detergent and school board chalk dust. 

And even though she ran an entire charter school and not an overcrowded classroom, Barba still hallucinated the chalk smell. 

“Is everything okay?”

“So you haven’t lost your voice,” she said, and breezed on by him.

“I’ve been--busy.” 

“For two days? Non-stop? Mijo, you’ll get a urinary tract infection again.”

“I was in the third grade, Mami, will you let it go?” 

Barba didn’t even bother getting flustered; among her go-to concerns was that he worked himself too hard, always had, even when his responsibilities laid little beyond math homework. She’d always threatened to tell the story at his wedding, and since he’d long denied her the opportunity, she took it up relentlessly in every other available venue. 

She ignored him, and made a beeline to the coffee area like she knew it had been recently disturbed. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Boston? I have friends in Boston. It would have been nice of you to say hello.”

“Say hello to your friends? Mami. Por favor.” Barba, still lingering at the door, was unable to make eye contact with Carmen at this angle, but was desperate for it.

“Mr. Barba,” Carmen piped up, because while God was lost to him, Barba had no trouble believing there were times when she could read his thoughts. “Your next meeting’s at--” Barba knew it for noon, which was an hour and a half out. Carmen _knew_ he knew. “--ten forty-five.” 

_Bless this woman,_ Barba thought. _And may her Christmas bonus be extravagant._

“Thank you, Carmen,” Barba said, then closed the door, effectively caging himself in with his mother, who was still stalking his office like there was prey to be found. “Can we make this quick, please?”

“This, what is this?” Lucia dropped her bag onto Barba’s couch, then followed suit. “If you’d answered my phone calls, I wouldn’t have had to do _this._ ”

“Duly noted.”

Lucia stared at her son until he joined her. Instead of the couch, Barba only made it as far as one of the chairs drawn in a neat circle around a table. They looked at each other, Barba noticing none of the bigger picture, but cataloguing all of the little details: Lucia was wearing her favorite earrings, a pair Barba had given her as a birthday gift a decade ago. Her hair was ever-darker as she chased away even the most innocuous of grey hairs. Her outfit was all charcoals and burgundies, because she never dressed for ‘summer,’ believing instead that it was her privilege--no, her _right_ \--as a New Yorker to look ready for a funeral.

He didn’t see her as looking upset or embarrassed or hurt. He saw the earrings and the hair and her style. He saw how they had the same dark circles under their eyes, though hers were smoothed into oblivion with concealer. Barba wondered if he’d gotten them from her, or if they’d always been his, and he’d shared--a gift, no different than the earrings. She wore both everyday.

Lucia was not a simple woman. She was at once everything he’d known her to be growing up, and a completely new person, newly met time and again as Barba himself grew into adulthood.

He still wanted to make her proud. He'd known since he was seven years old that it was no easy task.

“The detective,” she said, the title tipping from simple interest towards a grand pronouncement. Barba imagined her leading a three-hour discussion of the topic at one of her symposiums. “Carisi, is it?”

If he were a younger man, Barba would have rolled his eyes and made a comment after her tailored approach. He didn’t bother, now. 

“The man I’ve been seeing, yes.”

“This is the man who saved your life--?”

“He put it in danger, first,” Barba corrected. “Just so we’re clear.” This much, he should have let go without comment; it was only answerable to his own pride. But Barba was _tired_ of surrendering his pride for expediency’s sake.

Lucia stared, expression set, waiting for a better explanation than that.

“He was very… involved in the process, the protection detail…” Barba trailed off, waved a hand. _You know._

“Oh, Lord,” Lucia said, but didn’t make an effort to sound scandalized. She wasn’t, not really. The less she knew about her son, the more willing she was to accept even the narrowest corner of a broader picture at face value. He was secretive, and naturally she assumed he had cause to be. “I suppose it was convenient, at least.”

Barba had put himself down with that exact sentiment, though he reasoned it would be of little good to tell his mother were there disturbingly alike in their estimation of his character. 

“Well, why slow the wheels of progress,” Barba hummed. “He was already there, so _why not_ instigate, pursue, and maintain a romantic relationship?”

“Maintain?”

“Six months.” 

“Ah.”

“Do you want to ask me anything specific or did you just want confirmation on his name?” Barba said, and whatever intention he’d had to hold his tongue and reign in the sarcasm was swiftly abandoned. 

“Well, you didn’t even share that. How am I to know what to ask?” Lucia made it a point to sound affronted. Barba felt they were meeting again on unintentionally familiar planes. He supposed they could talk to one another from these angles, so contrived and opposing, but outfitted with mirrors in which to find one another’s shifting reflections. 

This was near enough to honesty, Barba supposed.

“You stopped asking twenty years ago.”

“It just upset you.”

Barba smiled, despite himself. It was always the case that she trotted out his poor responses, and never took to mind that he’d _felt_ poorly. 

“Right. Well, I’m not. Upset.” Then, because it was distractingly, embarrassingly true, he added of the ordeal, “I should have mentioned it earlier.”

“I suppose it's nothing serious,” Lucia mused, taking aim at one of her son’s most frequented denials and shooting it dead. “A very… frivolous… six months.”

She took a sip of coffee and smacked her lips off the lid. “Oh! How’s the therapy going?”

“Mami. That’s not funny.”

Barba reminded himself he was projecting. He and his mother had the same bad habits, all tethered to past affronts. He harbored grudges and only _pretended_ to be the kind of man who could forgive his mother’s entertainment of his abusive father in their lives for as long as he’d lasted. She did him one better, and operated under the assumption that she’d done what was ultimately best and, if not, then at least they’d all hurt one another equally.

(Barba once reminded her he’d never imparted an isolated zygomatic arch fracture on his father. She called him petty for using the medical terminology. _Or maybe you think I earned that one,_ Barba had shot back, and they didn’t speak for three weeks. He ended up calling her during the February 2006 snowstorm to ask if she had everything she needed. She’d said she was bored out of her mind, so he braved the cold to visit. Lucia cooked a gorgeous meal, and neither breathed a word into their old argument. They watched _Fargo_ instead.)

They traded in decades’ worth of disagreements and wounded feelings and broken hearts. Still, those three weeks had been their limit. 

“You’ll like him,” Barba said, gentler now and entirely promising. “He’s a good Catholic boy.”

“I suppose it’s as much as I could hope for,” Lucia replied, not intentionally reaching for cruel. Never that.

Still, Barba felt himself sink where he sat, as if the very air around him had warped in its consistency, and taken on elements of warm, untreated cotton. He imagined if he breathed too freely, he’d suffocate.

Lucia deviated the conversation, and Barba followed her tangent out into open air. Her words were more sensible, entirely plain. He latched onto the details of her request--a work favor, means to amp up a long-planned fundraiser for her charter school, and didn’t Barba know some heavyweights at City Hall? Were there a few City Councillors he hadn’t yet managed to piss off? 

It was all easy enough to agree to, which Barba did. After her son’s promise to make the necessary calls, Lucia fell quiet, her expression settling into uncertainty. 

Barba didn’t know what to make of that. Did she believe he wouldn’t come through? Or that these men and women in power would no longer receive him? Did she think, now, that she was sending an enemy combatant when she’d envisioned an emissary? 

Barba felt his defenses rise. He hadn’t told his mother about anyone he was seeing since she told him seeing men wasn’t worth the time and effort. That it wasn’t good for him and his image, and beyond that entirely _baseless,_ when he could be seeing women instead. That people would judge him for those choices--and not just those above him in social standing and clout, but those from his own community, who would see his career stall, and _for what?_ A personal failing. She’d said all these things out of frustration and sideways ambition and-- _yes_ \--love.

And here she was, worried she’d be proven right. 

“I am proud of you,” she said, and then repeated herself in Spanish, as if to better make her point. 

“Sure,” Barba said, and immediately felt like a heel. He looked apologetic, and meant it. “Thank you. I’m proud of you, too. Your fundraiser will be a rousing success. I’ll make some calls.”

“Raf,” she stressed, but could not clarify further. She’d never known how to encourage her child--everything he’d ever wanted, he always worked hard to get. It went without prompting. She set the example, and he took it and ran. 

In and amongst what he was achieving, she began to question the changes he’d made, particularly what he discarded from his life and grafted onto it instead. She’d always believed he could never be content continuing on like he was, running from his home and his community. She felt a bizarre sense of vindication seeing him alone and sulking and overworked, because she _knew_ if he could just be more of himself, more of the little boy who’d silently languished in the depths of unrequited love of a neighborhood girl since he was ten years old, who sang in Spanish and smiled relentlessly (when he wasn’t running his mouth), then maybe he could be happy. 

“Raf,” she said again, knowing he doubted her. 

“I should get back to work,” he said, and stood. He didn’t hide himself behind a wall of paperwork, but kept waiting, as if he lived in hope of her sudden, unadulterated approval. 

Lucia collected her things. She and her son exchanged their customary kiss on the cheek.

“I hope he makes you happy,” she said, and again put thoughts of their ever-shrinking family and thinning ties to their community behind her. “I hope something will.”

“He does,” Barba said at once. Untended honesty wasn’t his natural aim, so he stumbled and fell short, adding, “I’ll make those calls.” 

He didn’t step away or guide her to the door, either. Barba felt rooted to the spot, pinned under some unspoken word from her mother’s pursed lips. She could stop a tidal wave if she was so inclined. Her condescension was itself a form of authority. Barba supposed this was why she’d excelled at school administration, and quickly made the leap after just a few short years of teaching. She could cow an adult was ease; they were far simpler than children. 

She let free a disobedient sigh, as if she hadn’t wanted it to come to this. _Sighing,_ now? She was out of control.

“I just don’t know why-- _if you don’t have to_ \--why you _would_.”

“Well. I am.” 

It was the single most simple, entirely whole answer Barba had given on the matter. It came to him on the spot, although he’d long given thought to his mother’s presupposition that he had _options_ well ahead of these choices. Barba took it a step further back, because like he’d told Carisi--their being together was a choice. But all choices were made under a set of predefined circumstances. These were his. 

He hated that it all seemed to baffle her, or worse, that she saw him for making a selfish decision when he could do the kinder thing. Barba dreaded what she must think of him: that he was doing violence to himself. Of all people, he hoped she’d know the difference. 

“That’s it. That’s all.” 

Barba wondered if she’d ever said a thing like that to her mother. _I love him. I have to._

To her son, she said, “You’re so much like your abuelita.”

She patted his cheek. She parting smile she gave him was more assured than most, and beyond that, felt like an inheritance. Barba was struck with an unexpected jolt of excitement. How would he spend this sudden good fortune?

He made phone calls. First, those promised to his mother. And then, one just for him.

-

[Quick talk this morning? Your office? I’ll bring coffee.] 

Barba sent the message while in line at a cafe. Even if it was all for naught and there was a reason for Benson to reschedule, he could drink the second coffee. 

He was an optimist like that. 

But Benson replied in kind, saying that she’d be there in ten, and the meeting was set. Barba knew she liked Wednesdays for coming in early and tackling paperwork before it piled up, and though he felt a little bad about stealing away whatever midweek reprieve she afforded herself, those feelings didn’t amount to him postponing their talk. 

He bought her a muffin and called it even. 

It wasn’t until he was two blocks clear of the cafe that Barba supposed he could have bought Carisi a cup, on the off-chance he was in early enough to still find it warm. Barba dismissed the idea as soon as it emerged fully formed in his mind. Romance and sex and emotional dependency were all well and good, but he wouldn’t be seen for showing preferential treatment. He chalked it up to heatstroke. 

The precinct was a welcome change of temperature, if not atmosphere. For as oppressive as the heat was outside, the NYPD officers were downright _chilly._ More a meat locker than a summer breeze. Barba knew this was largely in his own mind, a consequence of the reception he’d received since bringing charges in the shooting of Terrence Reynolds, then fed by the threats against his life, and met, like another living body, when he was attacked in his own home. 

Those fears he’d heard shouted from the streets outside his courthouse office, the names of the mistreated and the dead… Barba was not proud of himself for how he felt, hearing them now. Hearing them _still._

He was relieved.

His name was not among the dead. He was neither made into a martyr nor an example. 

There was a boot weighing down on the necks of many New Yorkers, and though Barba had wriggled free, he could scarcely stand to face the moment. His life was made smaller for it, lesser, but was still intact. He hadn’t lost a limb or an eye or half his skull, he wasn’t laid up in a hospital bed all these months later, only dreaming of coming back to work when, in reality, he was relearning basic speech. 

Fear still stirred in his chest--an old rattle, like a cold kept well through winter, rallying its strength at just the moment Barba thought he’d kicked it for good. Every time he came to these offices--even SVU, where his life was undoubtedly saved--he felt like he was tempting fate. 

A great lot of good two coffees and a muffin would do him, here. 

While awaiting Benson’s arrival, Barba stood at Carisi’s desk, looking at what little littered the tabletop. He took in all in with one glance: a lamp, phone, tape dispenser, stapler, pad of paper, business card holder, and pencil cup. Even his laptop and tablet were stored in a desk drawer. Carisi had none of the assorted files and knickknacks, or other various assundry scattered across the space to make it feel homely. All that was notably his own were no fewer than four pens from Fordham Law, maroon and white, impossible to be confused for any NYPD fare. Nothing came close to the taxidermied chipmunk on Rollins’ desk--nothing _could._

No pictures, either. Barba supposed Carisi was in constant contact with his loved ones, and didn’t feel the impulse to _see_ them as well as hear from them. Then again, despite having never met the bulk of Carisi’s immediate family, Barba felt confident he could pick them out of a lineup, given the wealth of photographs Carisi hoarded on his phone. These, which the younger man somehow felt deigned to show Barba in such succession that it was like being back in law school, clutching flashcards and flowcharts for studying at every moment’s opportunity. 

Barba bristled. What did he know? Maybe a bare desk was a habit Carisi was yet to break after four transfers. 

Benson arrived like a brick through his thoughts, shattering them and spilling their contents over the precinct’s floor. 

She smiled, and instead of smiling back Barba suddenly felt woefully underdressed--a profound rarity, though his reasons were sound. It was the heat.

That insufferable New York heat, the kind that radiated thick and ghastly from the sewer grates, then was caught in and amongst the buildings, so that the only relief from it came from the very center of the street, where the heat was at least pure, beating down from a fat sun. 

As a result, he’d forgone the third piece of his suit--the vest--and didn’t so much enjoy the cut of his jacket without it. A less polished look than he’d planned--particularly for a meeting _he’d_ called--Barba felt like he was resting on his laurels alone. 

Still, his windsor knot was exact as carved marble, and a shade of ocean blue so deep and lovely that it surely never lapped upon New York’s shores, unless one were to go back a millennia. 

They exchanged pleasantries as they entered Benson’s office. The coffee, too, was administered like a shot.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Benson said after her first sip. She took another before adding, “And congratulations, by the way.”

“We’re dating, not pregnant.” 

Barba had heard a handful of those--well meant, certainly, but he heard them as something else--‘Congratulations to me, I now know something about you, and will extrapolate my thoughts considerably to inquire after that position you take, because What Else Is There?’

“That’s not a sonogram?” she teased, nodding towards the bagged muffin.

Barba served her both an exceedingly dull look and the confectionery. “It’s bran. We couldn’t be happier.”

Benson bit her lip to keep from teasing him any further. It was difficult; his first defense was rarely defensiveness itself, but jokes and snappy returns, all the things anyone who didn’t know him better could assume was a broad sense of humor. Benson sometimes laid that trap for herself, walking right into it and maybe--sometimes--pushing too hard. Though in this instance she pivoted, and remembered herself and her friend, and the same breed of pride they harbored inside of themselves like a disease. They were hosts to this thing, which could exemplify their greatness for all to see or tear them down from within, seemingly at will. 

“All the same,” Benson said, then paused for another sip because the coffee really did stand up to Barba’s insistence that it was the smoothest brew in Manhattan. “This is a bigger leap than you’re willing to say. I get that.” 

Barba studied her. She was earnestness all over, and how a thing like that didn’t drain from a person, he could never understand. 

“Do you?”

“The willing to say part.” God, did she _wink_ at him? “So, really. Congratulations.”

Barba heard it, that time. He felt his neck grow warm and decided to hurry things along. “Yes. Well. Regarding _that._ ” 

With a deft skimming of his fingers across the screen of his phone, Barba sent a pre-typed email, landing it in Benson’s inbox. Her own cell pinged with its arrival. 

“That’s the contact information for Yusuf Farroukh. He’s a… like-minded colleague, up-and-coming, and he’s agreed to handle any cases on which Carisi is the lead Detective. I won’t be prosecuting them.” Barba took a moment to reset himself. He raised his chin and relaxed his shoulders. The lines of his suit were exacting and smooth, and altogether he looked the picture of elegance. Benson did not need this level of showmanship from him, but he’d been in the habit of covering his bases, so the gesture found him as indistinctly as turning a corner, and nothing looked so out of place about being so perfect. 

“It’s not an ink-to-paper rule, per se, but it may as well be.”

“A precaution,” Benson echoed, always one to have a kinder word for what ailed Barba. She gave it a moment’s thought--it wasn’t the simplest solution, but it was undeniably neat and well-considered. She didn’t expect any less. 

“We’ve seen the defense tear into our cases over less,” she acknowledged, and cracked a wry smile. “I understand.”

Barba rolled his eyes. Legality and ethics had governed his choice of an alternate, but the need to satisfy this space as quickly as possible was, if not for immediate use, at least evidence of his better judgment when others inevitably came to question it. 

“I can already hear Buchanan’s soapbox whining after _emotional entanglements_ and the debasement of the court’s highest honor by its _entertainment_ of this most egregious, most _torrid_ love affair.”

“Huh,” Benson grinned.

“What.”

While Barba loved Benson’s smile, he’d come to dread her grin.

“Nothing. Only, it wasn’t so long ago that you were sat up in a bar feeling sorry for yourself and claiming to have only loved women and slept with men.”

“I was exaggerating.”

“Then or now?”

“Are you _really_ asking if I think Buchanan is above committing my sex life to record by the hand of a court stenographer?”

“No, I’m really not.”

“Then yes. I was exaggerating _then._ ” Barba sipped his coffee. He thought idly that, if by some turn of fate or twisting circumstance they’d never grown into friends, but adversaries, they still wouldn’t dare wreak havoc on one another. The possibility would loom in the distance or hang in the air, wet and electric like an oncoming storm, but somehow neither would choose to satisfy that niggling taste for ruin. That they should run the risk at all was unavoidable, however. Everything contained in both Benson and Barba--their respective egos, goals, and responsibilities--burned and expanded like whole galaxies ravaging space in too small an orbit. 

That was how all of Barba’s best relationships started: the potential itself was a deadly risk.

“And what’s new with you?” he asked, a perfunctory effort Benson could only laugh and shake her head at.

He’d spent years listening to the next great thing Noah did or said or put in his mouth. Benson’s own trials and triumphs were the sweeping headlines of their conversations, which was how he liked it. It was rare enough when Barba quietly said something about himself--rarer still to say it loudly. They weren’t done talking about him by a longshot. 

She reclined in her desk chair and was reminded that for as dark an outlook as her work provided her, those few lofty moments she could markedly claim was _pleasing_ came from the satisfaction born of hard work, perseverance, and shrewd thinking. There was a greater swell of pride, however, that buoyed even her darkest days. Anything wholly good and pure, she’d found, stirred from within her team. 

Munch, moving on. Nick doing what was best for himself--for once. Fin attaining a kind of quiet peace since reconnecting with his son. Rollins, throwing off her addictions in favor of finding purpose within herself. Carisi growing into his own and leaving behind the paper-thin mask of bravado he’d long tried to hide behind. 

And now _Barba,_ taking a chance. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t go with the Red Sox photo,” she said, practically sing-songing the fact that this coupling was news to everyone but herself.

“That was not a coordinated effort,” Barba said, as if anyone needed reminding. Benson continued to smile, a thing that surpassed reason, Barba imagined, if only for the early hour. Like a Daybreak flower opening on cue, and Barba’s involvement was of no consequence. He knew it wasn’t the case, but that kind of responsibility terrified him. 

“No,” Benson agreed while pulling up the widely-circulated photo on her phone. “I’m sure if it was, you wouldn’t be dressed like the Unabomber.”

“A disguise,” Barba surmised in short order. With all the thought he’d given to perception, he supposed that one was unavoidable. The hat, sunglasses, and beard all seemed a little excessive, now, even if they were donned out of comfort and familiarity. “It wasn’t that.”

“I know,” Benson answered promptly. Whatever was said by the get-up was undone by the smile. Wide and genuine, it was as honest a portrayal as Barba could give for himself. Well beyond words, even, his expression obliterated any doubt any who witnessed it might have as to his intentions, his feelings. 

For Barba, that distinction was as candy-sweet as it was _mortifying._

He took a seat across from Benson, finally. Usually he preferred the couch, where he could kick up his feet onto the small coffee table and make himself comfortable, even for conversations that seldom shared that attribute. Seating himself opposite Benson--her desk and all that it said of her high-ranking position fit between them--felt like yet another unwitting admission. 

_Here I am,_ Barba thought. _Answerable, and nervous for it._

“How…” It was a simple question, yet still he struggled to spit it all out. “Are things?” 

_Fuck,_ he thought. That wasn’t even it. 

He tried again: “How is he?”

He picked a bit of lint off the leg of his slacks, straightened his back and let his gaze drop momentarily to the ever-present Blackberry in his hand, as if the answer to his own question was of no concern to him. 

“I haven’t heard any complaints--”

“Please. I was awful to him, and look at me now. He’s not going to complain.”

“--which is why I’ve got Rollins watching his back and reporting to me.”

If Barba felt foolish for interrupting, he didn’t look it. “Good. Thank you.”

“His well-being is my responsibility,” Benson said. Intentional or not, it was a reminder that Barba was swooping in and pilfering from her rank and file. Fortunately, Barba found more lint upon his person.

“Yes. Well. I’d suggest joint custody on that matter, but the connotations are all wrong.”

Benson smiled wider, and Barba fought the childish instinct to tell her to _stop,_ because this was _important_ and merited more _solemn_ facial expressions. 

“I care about him. Very much. Very inexplicably.” Barba thought seriously about chugging the remainder of his coffee, if only to momentarily stop this onslaught of darling wordplay. “And I want-- _assurances_ is the wrong word. But I want you to know that Yusuf is an excellent prosecutor, so Carisi can be made lead on a case, whenever. Whenever he’s ready.”

Benson’s smile now ran the risk of splitting her in half. “Well listen to _you._ ”

“It’s heatstroke,” Barba huffed, knowing he sounded like a doting fool. He certainly felt like one. 

“He’s a good detective. He’ll be the lead on cases in his own time,” Benson said, and to settle Barba’s nerves, added, “I’ll give Yusuf a call later today, introduce myself.”

It did the trick, and Barba loosened the grip he had on his own sensibilities. “Thank you.” 

His first instinct was to rise, straighten his suit jacket, and leave. But the quiet, and Benson’s calming presence, and the coffee warming his hand while the precinct itself left him chilly, was all too pleasing that he could not compel his limbs to extricate himself. Maybe, if he’d have been craftier, he’d have delved into another vein of discussion--like his mother had done, yesterday--he could attempt to bury what he’d come here to say under piles of gossip and jokes and needless noise. 

_Wouldn’t that be nice?_

“I hope we can still talk,” Benson said, catching on and clearing the hurdle before Barba could take the chance.

“I hope so, too. Otherwise I’ll have to make another friend.” The thought put an honest-to-God grimace on Barba’s face. 

“I’m serious,” she said, and looked studiously upon Barba, as if to take stock of what all had amassed itself before her: patterns upon patterns upon patterns, though her own inspection gleaned so much more beyond disorder. Here was a man unsure in his footing, but gamely taking every advancing step. Benson knew a little bit about that, herself.

She gestured with her coffee cup, drawing an invisible arc between them. It hung like a frown over this, that, or the other. 

“It’s been too long,” she insisted. By the curl of her lip, Barba foresaw a sentiment Benson knew he wouldn’t like hearing. He sighed in preparation. “And after what happened… I hate myself for that, for not showing up for you.”

They’d exchanged apologies, previously--they were months-old, now, and packed flat under time and example. Barba didn’t need another, and refused it outright. 

“No, Liv, it’s… I didn’t want to see you, after, anyway.” 

It wasn’t the admission he’d ever imagined he’d make, but there it was. Once spoken, he felt its truth rush past his lips and cradle his cheeks. He saw her staring, her expression searching, but not hurt. 

“Everything that’s happened to you… And your strength,” he was quiet a moment, like _this_ above _all_ was a private truth, held so close to his chest sometimes Barba found he couldn’t breathe under its weight. 

“Your strength _terrifies me._ I was--am--still so certain if we ever talk about that, and subsequently _how well I’m doing,_ you’ll see right through me. It’s reductive and stupid and I’m sorry.”

He guzzled coffee in an attempt to drown the moment, then buoyed it with a well-timed: “You can thank six months of therapy for that, by the way. I’m told it’s called _progress_ and I should be _very_ proud.”

He was bitter. Benson knew all about that, too.

She smiled for him, but it was strained. She knew Barba meant the sentiment for a compliment, but he was wrong. Any strength Benson felt she had, she drew fresh on each day. She feared, too, that it was nothing innate within her, but something she cobbled together over mornings of Cheerios and sticky fruit slices with Noah. She wondered if she ever went a day without those few, necessary moments of complete joy, she’d turn up empty. 

_That_ was the conversation she wished to have with Barba, perhaps in the hope of learning that method served them both well. She shelved it, knowing she’d need a stiffer drink than coffee to carry it off. 

“It couldn’t be you,” Barba concluded, and thought idly, _I’m lucky it was him._

“I understand,” Benson said. She might as well have had the phrase recorded and queued up to play with the press of a button, given that it was a pillar, now, of all they’d said to one another. Barba very nearly pointed this out, but Benson headed him off, silencing the next wry twist of his lips and flick of his tongue with a simply-rendered, “I’m glad it was him.” 

Barba seemed surprised, then relieved. Shock rolled through him like a distant crack of lightening, fast tempered by murmuring thunder. In between his own ears, he heard it for what it was: a lifetime’s worth of agreement. Specifically, his lifetime. 

_Finally,_ someone had spied his good fortune and applied the perfect words to its sighting. Barba felt less like he was dealing in the fantastical, now. He wasn’t pushing boundaries or having profound visions; he just had a man in his life, someone who challenged and supported him, and above all loved him. It was--once laid out plainly--distressingly dull. People had this. Some even had it pushing a year and couldn’t believe their good luck. Others knew decades of it, and remembered little else of those empty days leading up to it. 

The only fantasy that remained, then, was the looks on peoples’ faces when they learned _not_ that this was what he wanted, but this was what he _had._

It was only a fantasy if he never reached a point at which he could reflect on how it was anything but.

It was only a fantasy if he housed it all inside his own mind or, barring that, his own apartment. His own smudge of sidewalk. His own set of rules. 

He thought back to yesterday’s phone call, and what had become of it.

Optics were just fantasies curated for public consumption, he decided.

Love was only bloodsport until the competitors tended to one another’s wounds. 

-

They migrated out of Benson’s office and into the bullpen. Barba had never intended to stay very long. He hadn’t intended, even, to be seen. 

Benson thanked him for the coffee and lingered with him a moment, not quite seeing him off, but not overtly hindering his departure. Barba didn’t think a thing of it at the time, but the outcome was too perfect not to have been orchestrated. 

Carisi had arrived, and rather than running into him as they passed ways on the elevator, Barba was stood at his desk, back turned, all but left there by Benson, who had a better vantage point and, perhaps, _ideas_ Barba didn’t think were entirely proper. 

But there the moment was, and Barba found himself lost to it. 

The quiet of the precinct in the early morning hours, Carisi’s bare-bones desk, the way he smiled easily and filled the room with his optimism--it was as though the universe had conspired to set the perfect trap. At once, Barba felt both at ease and at fault. It was a deadly combination, one he was ever-quick to fall for. 

And Barba fell hardest for the fact that Carisi’s face showed signs of him actually having slept some, chaotic start to the week be damned. He was smooth and bright, like skin pinched by cold. 

In hindsight, that’s what did Barba in like a mafia hit: Carisi was still so _pink._

“Brought you something,” Barba said, and watched as Carisi’s brow furrowed in confusion. 

“A case?”

“I’ve set the bar for gifts tremendously low, I see.” 

He sank his hand into his briefcase but then, out of the corner of his eye, Barba saw Rollins and Fin arrive, dashing any notions about how perfect his timing had been. He was aware now that he’d be scrutinized for his technique, so he decided not to show even a glimmer of it. He kept his shoulders square, meaning to exact the exchange like it meant nothing to him. 

“I was going to give this to you--not here. Literally anywhere else but here. But, I’m busy. So.” Barba still hadn’t drawn his hand out of his briefcase, like he’d rather suffocate the gift than be made a part of its giving. Carisi sensed he was embarrassed, but couldn’t help himself. 

He let his gaze settle to where Barba had disappeared his hand, then flicker upwards, catching Barba’s own.

“I hope it’s not a puppy.”

Barba’s approach was juvenile and--ultimately--impossible. A smile cracked his facade. Tenderness crept in, flooded his eyes. He imagined he looked like a lovesick fool. He couldn’t even pretend to _pretend_ not to mean this. 

Barba set his jaw and retrieved the item: a framed photo. He held it so that Carisi could not see the image, only the frame--a simple, edgeless little thing designed to stand upright by an invisible bottom lip that drew backwards an inch, maybe less. It was modest, particularly for Barba’s tastes. Given the heaviness of his office, Carisi was surprised the thing wasn’t leatherbound and set in a slab of aged oak.

“That kid in the park taking pictures? Took this one. Little shutterbug. Or budding stalker.” He didn’t delve into the particulars of having done some old-fashioned detective work of his own--namely, retrieving the kid’s full name from his Instagram post, and searching Facebook for a public cell number. For the sake of his pride, Barba also excluded the retelling of his introduction when the kid couldn’t place him by name. _We met over the weekend. In a park in Boston. And now we’re headlining Buzzfeed articles together._

_“Anyway,”_ Barba said, and finally handed the thing over.

The image was a candid shot, captured on their last day in Boston. They were a handsome pair, relaxed where they sat on a park bench backed against swells of purple and green. 

The moment captured when Barba had taken off his hat to enjoy the sun. His sunglasses here hanging low on his shirt. He looked bare. Barba was smiling, his arm drawn around the back of the bench, hand raised to rest at the base of Carisi’s skull. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture, and even in a means as far removed as a photo, it felt out of place in the precinct. Not wrong, just--an unknown.

Carisi remembered the moment, but he hadn’t expected to see the look on his own face--ever. He wasn’t wearing his selfie-ready smile, all polished teeth and squinty-eyed. He looked--quite astonishingly-- _astonishingly good._ His smile was soft, easy. His posture was straight-backed and assured. Whatever he’d just said, he’d been proud of himself. 

Most notably, his head was neither drawn low nor angled towards Barba. It was _Barba,_ rather, who was so inclined. Everything from his gaze to his body language was spilled towards Carisi, captivated. That this should catch Barba’s eye, that he should amass options and choose this was the gift by half. Carisi willed himself to remember the sight of Barba’s hand drawing out, like a musical instrument from its black velvet case, ready-curled around a masterpiece. 

“Thank you,” Carisi said, and it was a relief to hear himself speak. He was dry-mouthed, and felt overly cautious, like if he said a thing too-sweet Barba would vanish. He didn’t, and for six glorious seconds Carisi was able to look upon him with barely-contained joy.

Dropping his voice into something discernibly stern, Barba said, “You absolutely do not have to keep it here. _Obviously._ ” He loosened, then, and reigned himself back into lightness. “If you do, I only ask that whenever you look at it, you hear my voice telling you to _get me more evidence_ and please, _for the love of God,_ read people their Miranda rights.”

Rollins, who was either doing a poor job of hiding her grin or simply not trying, asked from her desk: “You got framed photos for all of us, Counselor?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Fin piped up. He wore no such grin himself, but there was an ease in his voice that spoke to his good humor. 

“Do not give me a reason,” Barba said warningly. And though he detected little more than passing amusement from the two detectives, he was nonetheless relieved that he had his back to both. He knew he’d be tempted to search their faces for streaks of judgment or disdain, and use that measure to gage his standing. 

Instead, he schooled his attention to where it ought to be: watching the smile on Carisi’s face twitch wide and shrink fast, like the prospect of a known response to this kind of thing was wholly beyond him, and he was reduced to trying out options. 

“Should just have a big banner with his face on it, really,” Rollins said to Fin in a stage-whisper.

“A fresco would brighten up the place,” Fin agreed.

Finally, Carisi’s blue eyes sought out Barba’s, and his expression found a home. He smiled, something small and private, and just as it slid towards dreamy, he gave a brisk nod, because Carisi thought if he went in for a hug, he surely wouldn’t stop there.

Privately, Barba agreed, and the thought raised a smirk to his lips. He pushed off of Carisi’s desk and left him with a sideways smile, half-lidded eyes, and quirked brows. 

_Look at me go._

Mid-step in his departure, Barba overheard Rollins razzing Carisi: “Honestly. I’m going to need a better explanation than what you gave me the other day.”

Fin sighed, practically beside himself because he’d been a stalwart sideline observer of all these little office trysts, never interjecting his opinion, but never wholly surprised, either, that good-looking people would couple up amidst the stress and toil of their work. He’d seen people ache for comfort and find it briefly in their partners, but here was something so outside his purview, now, that he felt compelled to storm the field and better see how this had played out. 

“Dude, same. How in the hell?”

Barba kept his pace, so whatever Carisi’s response was would remain a mystery. He didn’t mind; the smile said enough. 

He was two blocks away in the back of a taxi when he got Carisi’s texts.

[Why did you do that 1st thing in the morning??]  
[Now I have to wait all day to see you again] 

Barba wrote back smugly, [That’s what the picture is for] and, [Look at me to your heart’s content.]

When Carisi didn’t respond, Barba amused himself thinking he was doing exactly that. Working was the likelier option, but it was early, he was drunk on the first moment of unadulterated pleasure he’d had since the weekend. Even Monday night, for all its quiet revelations and promises made and kissed-closed, had the weight of the day on it. Every kind thing was laid out and smoothed, something to counterbalance a day fraught with cluelessness and tension. 

It was a force of habit that made Barba question their timing. It was an embarrassing realization, then, that what he imagined as the twist of a garrote at his throat was only his own hand attempting to regulate how freely he offered himself, promises and revelations and all. He’d surprised himself, that was all. 

So it was in a moment of reclaimed peace that Barba was unsettled. He was in his office, half an hour into a pile of depositions, when the thought struck him that perhaps he’d acted to meet his own ends, and with little of Carisi in mind.

He traded the files for his phone and wrote, [I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.] 

While the reply was immediate, it did nothing to settle Barba’s doubts.

[????]

[Eloquent.] Barba wrote back, period and all. It wasn’t his intention to inspire more unwanted attention on Carisi’s behalf, or whatever little fanfare charged itself into being as he turned on his heel and breezed like summer itself into the elevator. 

[I wasn’t going to give it to you there.]

[I’m glad you did give it to me] Carisi fired back, allowing not so much as a second of time between them to balloon wide with doubt. Then, because kind words came from big hearts, and neither afforded much in the way of decorum, Carisi added: [lmao sounds dirty] 

Barba closed his eyes and imagined the look of secondhand embarrassment on his own face. It broke quickly with a smile as Barba sent his reply.

[Don’t speak to me.]

The barrage of emojis that flooded his inbox felt like one of life’s high points, a moment breaking like a flashbulb to illuminate his entire existence. 

Barba was surprising himself all over. 

-

The photo served its purpose. Carisi didn’t see Barba again for four days, and while he _was_ superstitious enough to consider the possibility that the thing had incidentally cursed them, there were vile enough truths in the world that Carisi didn’t need to make another up. 

They caught a case. It was a statement that begot a ready answer to those awful, unspoken questions. It was obvious enough what had been done to the victim, a girl of only eighteen, her face only _just_ clear of teenage acne and a clumsy hand with eyeliner. She was beginning her life. 

It was the kind of case that made Carisi wonder how humanity had survived as long as it did, when it could turn so ferociously in on itself. He wondered, too, if most people knew they could walk into a park and find a human being in such a ruined state, would those spaces would empty within the hour? The grass would grow and benches would be overtaken. Everything would return to the earth, and maybe--Carisi had a bitter streak, it turned out--maybe the world would be better for it. 

Before it swallowed up the squad’s time, the case chewed up their hearts. Carisi found time to call his sisters--just to say hi, remind them how much he loved them and how they deserved love and respect and nothing less, and _God,_ were they ever tiring of those kinds of calls. 

He didn’t call Barba. 

He couldn’t. It felt wrong to even want to. 

They saw one another once on Thursday, but spared only a few words before Carisi had to take his leave. 

_You got that search warrant, Counselor?_

_You’re lucky. Judge Roberts was feeling generous. Your suspect’s apartment, car, his mother’s apartment, and his brother’s dorm room--go nuts._

The case didn’t go to court. 

It went as far as the I-95, north, just shy of New Rochelle. 

On Sunday, their suspect was struck dead in a car accident in an attempt to flee the state. It left things undone, ultimately hurtling the victim--her bones full of pins and her parents at a loss as they faced an ever-growing hospital bill--into a deep spiral of guilt as she conflated her assault with the man’s death. Where once the entire world seemed to be moving too fast, it stilled, but the effort to sit and console required much the same energy. Everyone was exhausted and beaten down, and in dire need of a drink.

-

Benson and Barba were coming from downtown, while the rest of the squad had only just left the precinct. 

Benson had been through the ringer on behalf of the victim, and was then held answerable to the City when questions arose as to whether police pursuit led to the suspect’s death. Barba about laughed in the face of the IAB official who proposed that scenario. The _one time_ an officer did not pull a weapon in error, where the death was as near a thing to an act of God imaginable, and _now_ was the time for scrutiny. 

(Wisely, he’d held his tongue, and allowed Benson to make her own case. They were out in half an hour, and again Barba was reminded that Benson was no slouch when it came to arguing for her own. That he couldn’t much appreciate it the last time she’d done so was now, in hindsight, well within reason.)

(He didn’t utter a word to that point, either. Neither did she.)

The groups spied one another in their approach and, if recent revelations had slipped anyone’s mind, they came careening back with all the force of a freight train.

Barba smiled.

Besides briefly Wednesday morning and for all of twenty seconds on Thursday (and, admittedly, the odd inconspicuous glances at the photo gallery on his phone), this was the first Barba had seen of Carisi. He let his gaze travel slowly and take it all in: those bright blue eyes, crowded by dark bags, but still shining under a beacon of sideswept hair that became a halo under every foggy beam of light he passed under along the sidewalk. His shirtsleeves were rolled to impossible heights, exposing bare forearms because the bullying heat of the day and swelteringly wet night demanded it. 

He was a vision, and that much duly earned a visceral response. 

But Barba soon remembered himself and mastered his expression back into one of cool confidence. He took a step to the side, and magnanimously allowed Benson to enter the establishment first. Carisi couldn’t quite pull that off, so he simply lagged behind his fellow detectives until he and Barba had positioned themselves for a scant few moments alone.

Carisi let his shoulders sink as he delved his hands into his pockets. He did this, Barba knew, to keep himself from instigating a hug. 

Not that Barba would have minded, after days of catching himself staring into the empty air beside him, and tedious nights spent bitterly alone. He knew Carisi was only catching cat-naps in the precinct bunks for a few hours at a time, but that only did so much to soften the blow.

So theirs was a strange meeting, now: what had felt unreal days ago was how their lives had simply played out. All that they might have said or needed to hear was a wash; there simply hadn’t been the time. 

In some ways, it was inevitable: Carisi’s eagerness and Barba’s hesitation met like high and low fronts, then combined to forge something new and inherently wild. It would be like this for them--decisions met and drawn individually, circumventing arguments to arrive within throwing distance between their respective conclusions. It was a thing Barba didn’t imagine could even work-- _should_ work, because leniency in opinions grated harder on his nerves than much else. 

All these small, inconsequential instances of agreement seemed too great a thing to pile high and marvel at, a crowning achievement to how much fondness smoothed over reality. Wasn’t it likelier that one party was lying?

Not so with Carisi. There was a new sense of camaraderie between them, an unspoken, _Hey, it’s me. Funny meeting you here._

“Hey,” Carisi said, taking a step closer to the building so as to free up sidewalk space. It was a kinder gesture than was necessary; New York wasn’t Mayberry, but there were hardly crowds streaming into a cop bar on a Sunday evening. 

“Hi,” Barba said, his own jagged little smile returning. 

“You good?”

“Tired,” Barba answered, and let his gaze search Carisi. “You?”

It seemed a strange thing to cop to, and a stranger thing--still--to be. Although he’d been called in Sunday night to aid in tidying the mess made after the death of their suspect, he’d had the regular end of his workweek, and all of Saturday to himself. Carisi wondered if he’d been bored with all that time alone, or relieved for it. But then, why hadn’t he slept well?

Infinitely sorry, now, for never calling, Carisi shook his head and answered teasingly, “Lonesome.”

Carisi watched Barba raise an eyebrow, and felt his chest grow warm as the corner of the man’s mouth followed suit. 

“Are you suggesting we cut out early? How brazen.” 

Barba followed up his smile with a sleight of hand. In an instant, he’d had slipped an arm through one of the neat pockets formed by Carisi’s shelved hands on his hips. Barba threaded it around Carisi’s waist and back, and drew himself in so close that his left thigh-- _and then some_ \--pressed flush against Carisi’s right. 

Barba’s hand opening against Carisi’s back--the thrill it gave them both--was nothing less than primitive. Carisi felt it like a unreal, ancient thing taking a new form and with it, claiming a new territory. And just like that, Carisi’s thoughts were gone, thrown like a rock into the bay, sinking hard and landing on some old begotten memory--that low-budget cartoon of creatures evolving with every step they took out of the primordial soup. He’d always thought it looked sketchy--reason enough for the nuns in his school to play it and not a more well-crafted piece on the subject of evolution, he supposed--but here he was, thirty, recalling that lesson, and thinking it was surely as pertinent as anything he’d learned since or _would ever_ learn. 

Sometimes, things grew and changed faster than one would expect them to. 

That massive grip of Barba’s swallowed up a wealth of dress shirt, too, and the material tightened across Carisi’s sides and front. Barba joined his free hand to the effort and took another fistful.

He felt as if the mere prospect of drinks had imparted on his senses the genuine effect, and so there he was, soft, loose, touch-starved--and making a grand show of it. 

And to think that three days together had ever been in question. 

Four days _apart_ and he was losing his goddamn mind. 

Carisi smiled with all his teeth at the display, then wiped his forehead of sweat. It was the pulsing, leftover heat of the day dotting his brow, not Barba’s joking--probably joking?--little act. Even for his wily efforts, the unfinished promise they posed, Barba did look tired. His eyes were locked into a perpetual hug between heavy lids, which seemed to rise and cradle themselves like arms, strong and protective of the smudge of green on glassy white.

Here was the kind of playfulness Carisi was always surprised to see Barba indulge in, but eagerly cashed in on, himself. Every icy look thawed into something with only a passing chill, just enough bite to tease open a mouth or surprise a hip bone. 

In reality, it was another first in a long list made in short order: letting their guard down in public. They were outside on an open sidewalk, hands on one another, the space between them obliterated, their throats bared to the heat. All this gathered under a spell of soft looks traded willingly through the orange light that bled onto the sidewalk like a slow procession of mourners wielding candles.

There was the occasional bark of ugly noise or shop-talk from a gaggle of identically-dressed financiers and wall street hanger-ons, all of whom traveled in packs and howled like frat boys. They infested the downtown area, a plague as detested as rats and as populous as roaches.  
They passed, with neither Barba nor Carisi paying them any mind. Car horns and foot traffic added percussion, and Carisi found himself wishing for a oft-played song from Barba’s record collection instead, something he knew could mark his presence in that way only Barba’s own familiar touches could stand up against in terms of exact measurements. 

A clear favorite tune was one thing, an easy denotation of weeks. But a thumb digging into his side, eyes watching the twitch of Carisi’s own lips, and the press of a thigh? It could narrow their concerted effort down to the very _second_ amid months. 

“I wouldn’t mind a drink, actually,” Carisi said, and even in opening his mouth, felt the night’s heat swarm and touch the once-cool backs of his teeth. He winced, too, concerned Barba might take offense. 

The fact of the matter was, a four-day race to an obliterated finish line left him aching for a moment with his friends and colleagues, and within that moment, the time needed to commiserate over what felt like a collective failure of their most fervent efforts. 

“I wouldn’t mind a few,” Barba agreed. He took a second, then, to straighten the mess he’d made of Carisi’s shirt. Fingers smoothed a path along the waist of his slacks, and Carisi felt himself shudder and--briefly--come completely undone. He could have sank into the pavement.

 _Friends?_ Carisi thought in a moment of weakness. _I can make new friends._

“You give me the word, though, and I’ll carry you outta here.”

“You haven’t got the upper body strength,” Barba tutted, then sidestepped Carisi entirely and made his way into the bar. Carisi wouldn’t let him get away with the slight, so he practically stepped on Barba’s heels in an attempt to gain proximity and be heard.

“You give me the word and I’ll get us a taxi outta here.”

“And the driver will help carry me,” Barba surmised.

Carisi grinned. “That’s the plan.”

Barba spied Benson and the others at a cozy, u-shaped booth with an extra chair drawn up to satisfy their group, and led the way. Their passing absence-- _though noted_ \--went without comment.

Rollins and Benson took the interior of the booth, with Fin and Barba manning the open sides. Carisi sat in the extra chair out of habit; his long legs were the oft-perpetrator of accidentally bruised shins.

The evening had the weight of necessity over it, a sinking ceiling groaning just above their heads. To fill a glass, raise, and drain it offered a touch of finality to a case that would ultimately have no definite end. They gathered as if there was one, and would drink well to forget it. 

Their little company was quiet, none having much of anything to say after four days’ work left them without so much as a confession. Attitudes were tempered, still, by the long slough of overtime on everyone’s books. DNA would snuff out any lingering anxieties that they’d got the wrong man, but for timely remedies, a drink among friends was the only option. 

Benson broke the silence at their table with a word of commendation for her squad and their tireless work. She finished with an acknowledgement of the difficulties they faced being so short-staffed, which necessitated an impromptu toast on behalf of their missing compatriot. 

Fin, who understood Benson’s comment was an attempt to ease her squad into the idea of replacing Dodds, concurred: “Wouldn’t hurt to mix it up. Odds are, this next one’s mine.”

Barba smirked over the lip of his glass, even hazarded a chuckle. He knew there were eyes on him and Carisi. At least in his present company, Barba didn’t mind being seen looking pleased with himself. He knew these people for the work they did, not any grandstanding. 

All around the table the air seemed to shift, break as if a long, brisk winter had been struck by spring’s first warmth. 

Benson led the conversation astray, acknowledging any missed weekend plans and offering time enough to make them up. Rollins nodded along until curiosity got the best of her and she turned--and it was _A Turn_ \--and went in, addressing Barba instead of Carisi, who had evaded this exact line of questioning.

“Can I ask--?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Barba cut in, his voice loosened to a drawl by his first sip of scotch. His was a preemptive call for restraint, but Rollins wasn’t deterred. 

“--why _Boston?_ ”

“Ah,” Barba said, and as his gaze slid damningly towards Carisi, everyone’s followed. 

Carisi blushed over the attention. He couldn’t very well tell how he’d lounged on the floor of Barba’s apartment and waxed poetic over lost loves in the sixth grade. Well, he _could,_ but it was a distinction without a difference, because he wasn’t going to. Carisi liked to think he’d picked up a trick or two from Barba’s collection, polished and reshaped them and made them his own. Subtlety and tact weren’t _wholly_ lost on him.

He glanced at Barba, who looked unbothered. Whether he’d practiced the placid expression or the alcohol smoothed him out or or he truly felt so at ease, Carisi couldn’t know for sure. He considered what they’d discussed, all the allowances Barba had been willing to make before their relationship was met with broad--if generally empty--attention. He’d still hardly said a word about it, which was his primary desire. So he took a gamble.

“Yeah, well,” his smile spilled wide and easy, “I talked myself out of France.”

He’d said enough, but alluded more. 

Rollins leaned forward and started to ask the inevitable follow-up: “And _when--?”_

“One question was your allotment,” Barba cut in again. He assumed Carisi would share what he saw fit when he deigned to do so; the matter needn’t become a group discussion.

(Privately, Barba imagined _he’d_ share this story with Benson, maybe after two glasses of wine, or when she needed a good laugh born of the simplest humor in existence: men’s own egos. He didn’t want the tale disfigured by Carisi’s telling of it.)

“I’m gonna tell her later,” Carisi said, his words wrangled around a smile as he proved Barba’s point. He’d share of himself in due time. “Rollins, I’ll tell you later. Fin, you want in on this?”

“All I want to know is when any of y’all find the _time.”_

While the others laughed, Benson raised her glass. She said to those gathered, “Fin’s just saying that because he’s been busy studying for the Sergeant’s exam.”

Carisi put down his drink to physically _applaud_ and Rollins pumped her fist while hollering. Benson was beaming. Barba, in a bout of inspired quick-thinking, ordered another round for the table.

Fin just shook his head at their antics and took another swig from his beer. 

Tension spilled off everyone’s shoulders as they began to remove themselves from the past four days with conversation and drink. The case was readily ignored; there was no going forward with it. Benson asked after progress in another case, closed save for the conviction. Barba assured her it was in the bag. 

“This is the case you said was weaker than coffee brewed through a sock?” Benson teased.

“It _is,_ and I should be ashamed to have taken it at your behest, but I’m on a roll.” 

The evening carried on and time itself seemed to loosen, like a rope gaining slack. The low light in the bar warmed the table, lit it sparingly, and seemed to jettison their entire party into the dark, spinning idly through space. They came ungrounded from the earth itself and everything from the lost case to the death tied up in it felt easier to bear, and in that ill-gotten ease came a kind of overt recklessness.

Carisi had a hand permanently fixed on Barba’s nearest shoulder, like he meant to guide him through the various discussions volleyed around the table. But Carisi spoke with his hands--they fluctuated like a voice, scaling high and reaching out to make their points--and sometimes a gesture would carry over and take Barba’s shoulder along for the ride. Barba did not so much as blink at this, though when he caught Benson smiling in his direction, he rolled his eyes at her. 

Through their posture and rapport--light, friendly, sharpened at both ends but not dangerously so--they offered a glimpse of their newfound familiarity. Even when some smart line or another shot out of Barba’s mouth like a lit firecracker, Carisi was quick to counter. They knew each other’s voices, the sharp turns and soft lulls. Barba noticed Rollins’ expression grew softer as the night went on. Whatever answers she’d wanted from Carisi some days ago, she had them now. 

Perhaps that’s what was so radical about their coupling: it was pleasant. Reason stood that it should be agreeable at the very least, but _pleasant_ seemed a bridge too far. 

Of course, they were among friends. The matter wasn’t questioned, only plucked up off the ground and carried easily on. 

Questions--and judgments, ultimately--arrived from an outside source. 

The offender was sandy-haired and youthful, a transplant from Yonkers, which he often had to contend wasn’t _that_ far from the City. 

He did not stand out; he was a beat cop in a bar where beat cops passed like grazing cattle. They were a collective, all blue columns, some drawn more generously around the middle, others spilling over at the points of their shoulders, tired after a long, hot day.

He was several drinks gone, and occasionally had to support his movements with a hand against a chair’s back or table’s edge as he navigated the spread of tables across the bar. When he happened behind Carisi, who was listening to Rollins’ latest fabricated concerns about Jesse’s new nanny, this guiding touch became a willful force. The officer purposefully missed the back of the chair, and instead collided the flat of his palm with Carisi’s shoulder, jostling the detective and disturbing the hold on his raised drink so that well over half of it went down Carisi’s shirtfront.

Before even wholly aware of what had transpired, Barba knew this: instead of dropping from his shoulder as if burned, Carisi’s grip first tightened before it went slack. And to Barba, that read first as fear, not shock. Being shoved was of little consequence, the spilt beer even less. In a fraction of a second, Carisi had guessed at, doubted, and feared any number of outcomes.

Everyone besides Carisi immediately stood, ready, and Barba was first among them, his glare fixed and jaw set like he meant to brawl. Though all would have been excused any hesitation, none were seemingly dulled by the alcohol they’d ingested, or else calmed by the night, or slowed by four days of pounding the pavement after leads and ends. It seemed likelier still that they’d contracted the same feverish disease, and were stood together, eerily-focused, strangely drawn towards who they perceived as patient zero.

There were eyes on them from across the room--a whole table full, outfitted in navy blue and accented in gold and sneers--and to search the scene for its crime was a trial so paltry, so _childish,_ that Barba felt embarrassed even for seeing it plainly. He’d observed grander mysteries in the drawer where he kept his kitchen utensils.

Here was a schoolyard taunt carried to completion, surely plucked out of time itself because none but a brat would think it prudent.

It was the kind of display, Barba realized, that if he’d seen from across the bar he would have rolled his eyes, feigned indifference, but watched with rapt attention. How did people do this? How did pride become such a short stick with which to batter others? 

In the sliver of his mind that wasn’t otherwise geared towards stillness, threat assessment, and anger, Barba reached out to find irony. After facing down uniformed officers in his home and a courtroom, it only seemed fitting that he should complete the trifecta with a bar setting.  
Intellectually, he understood this affront was not made towards his person. This was Carisi’s battle, and Barba was only among the reinforcements. That did little to hinder his stance, because whatever logic dictated and sense prescribed, Barba had leapt up from the table and placed himself stalwart and straight-backed, jockeying into the space sidelong ahead of Carisi.

It was as plain a defensive move as Barba knew, but seemed to be dictated, drawn, and ushered through by circumstances beyond his control. His thoughts, his gestures, all commenced in the uncomfortably short distance of a single heartbeat. 

And while everyone stood to demand answers, it was Carisi who spoke first, with a question.

“Pete? Pete Greene?” 

Sopping wet shirt and all, Carisi stood and smiled. “Wow, hey. We went through the Academy together.” That much, he said for the benefit of his friends and Barba, who admittedly found little use for that factoid, and even less merit in its sharing. 

And then Carisi said--inexplicably, _inexcusably_ \--for this interloper, “How ya been?” 

The moment struck time still, if only to grant participants and onlookers alike an opportunity to reckon with it. 

At the very least, it caught Officer Greene off guard. He answered dumbly, drunkenly, “Pretty good.”

“How’s Amy? And your kid--Hank, right?”

“Doing real good,” Greene said, after a slow, enfeebled fashion. Although stunned that a man he sat next to in lectures some five years back remembered the names of his wife and child, Greene found cause to add, “Got another on the way.”

“Get outta here!” Carisi exclaimed without missing a beat. At the same time, he wore a smile and accepted napkins offered by a passing waitress and patted down his soiled tie and shirt. He seemed torn between addressing the mess made of him, or buying a celebratory drink for the man who’d _purposefully spilt his._ “Boy or girl?”

By the end of a two minute conversation, Carisi had introduced the man to the squad and Barba, though it was only the latter who took the initiative and stuck out his hand for Greene to shake. If the other officers saw-- _good._ Barba’s only thought was to ruin this man’s pride, too, and make him a pariah among his ilk.

Carisi was so affable, he got his due apology-- _mumbled,_ Barba noted--as well as the guy’s number, and prospective plans to hang out. Barba set his jaw at the very idea.

 _Maybe at his disciplinary hearing,_ he thought savagely. _We can all ‘hang out.’_

Greene continued on towards the bathrooms, because even for being as small-minded as the incident proved, he wasn’t fool enough to return to his own table after losing his grip on their collective brainchild of an endeavor. 

“Kill ‘em with kindness?” Fin asked of Carisi. He, along with the rest of the detectives, was still standing watch. The group Greene had come from had since turned their backs, disinterested, but Fin stared like his gaze could pierce through shirt and flesh and bone, and read badge numbers clear off of the tin they were printed on. 

“There’s gotta be a faster way,” Rollins muttered. Like Fin, she kept her sharp eyes on the table across the room. 

“Aw, hey, he didn’t mean anything by it,” Carisi said, and for his trouble got a patently kind and firmly issued “Well done” from his Lieutenant. 

Carisi was the first to take his seat. He did this, in Barba’s shrewd estimation, so that he didn’t have to look any of them in the eye. The others followed his lead and sat.

Barba hadn’t stared over at the cops, only at Carisi. And he didn’t have a wry comment to paste over the situation, much less a desire to tear it open any wider. He was inexplicably stalled, and his only impulse was to serve Carisi a long, steady, considering look during all this--the ruminations from his colleagues--as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the display from either side. The childish, mean-spirited move from Greene was no doubt instigated by his table of small minds floating loose in alcohol. Carisi’s response was something likewise shaped by public opinion. Barba saw a mindfulness in Carisi’s friendly smile; he didn’t see the heart in it.

On its face, the situation was this: Some low-on-the-totem-pole officers saw an easy target and meant to rattle him. Carisi had unwittingly been the butt of an unfortunate exchange, but quick thinking allowed him to turn it around. It was a sliver of a thing, hardly meriting a fraction of the collective night. More time was spent razzing Fin about his hesitance towards the Sergeant’s exam. 

Yet, for so miniscule a moment, Barba couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Carisi was both measured and cool in his reaction, but both seemed beyond his reach, if Barba was going to be honest in his estimate. Carisi didn’t have a lifetime of practice put towards evasion tactics, only his most deep-seated denials. Barba couldn’t place the moment’s humble origins. _Restraint_ seemed too calculating a term for what Carisi had done, which amounted to smiling, talking, and playing up his affable, upbeat self.

The simplest answer, Barba reasoned, was humiliation. 

Worse, it was a breed of humiliation the likes of which Carisi, who’d lived an assumed life, did not know. That his introduction should be in front of friends and colleagues was particularly gutting, and Barba was ashamed to think he’d watched it, a feast for the eyes, like he was starved for that kind of personal ruin since last feeling it for himself. 

And for that, Barba felt shame so pronounced, it could have been a physical presence in his throat. He envisioned it as a thick, looping cancer that coiled and unfurled with such timing as to slowly suffocate him. 

In Carisi’s defense, Barba wanted to burn the establishment to the ground, if only so that the thought could never find Carisi again if he absently walked along the street. He wouldn’t be struck dumb with the embarrassing incident to which he’d been made a party; he’d only remember the horrific fire that nearly claimed all their lives. 

And that was better, wasn’t it?

Barba had a sudden vision of himself approaching the opposing table and verbally beating the smirk off every swill-drinking, self-satisfied face. He wanted to demonstrate for Carisi that, while maybe he was in for more of this, he need not _ever_ take it with a smile. Barba had tried that method and found it demoralizing and aimless. 

_That’s not good enough for you,_ he wanted to say, to help Carisi understand. 

The moment his hand formed a fist on the tabletop, however, Barba caught himself. He determined his outrage was not what Carisi needed at this moment, and if Carisi’s first instinct was to vie for calm, Barba could pay his share. He opened the hand, flattened it, and relaid it anew atop Carisi’s bare forearm. 

So he remained silent, save for making an order for another round for the table. 

“Well now I’m one behind,” Carisi joked, and with the exception of a grim, but commendable smile from Rollins, the comment didn’t quite land. Nor did the evening pick itself back up. It languished like an aching body, occasionally lurching upwards, but eventually sinking flat, spent and sickly and finished. 

Benson led it to a graceful death, again telling her team they’d done their best and she was proud, then opening the door towards time off. Because he was not a part of that conversation, Barba left the table to settle the tab. To a fresh-faced waitress, he made a swift and winning case regarding the beer that had soaked Carisi’s shirt. 

“I think you can put _that_ on Officer Greene’s tab. If he gives you any trouble--” Barba double-clicked a pen and scrawled onto the receipt. “--Here’s my number at the District Attorney’s office. Thanks _so much.”_

-

Carisi was still uselessly patting down and plucking at his soiled shirt when they left the bar, though his concerns were misplaced. He worried he looked and smelled like a drunkard; nevermind that the shirt and tie were a lost cause. One step outside and the heat had gaped at the fabric, breathed open-mouthed over the stain and set it in record time. 

Carisi and Barba took off walking while Fin hung back to see Benson and Rollins into a cab. It was Barba, moreso than Carisi, who felt keyed up. It was imperative that he exercise his legs alongside whatever caution he could muster. He didn’t speak out of turn, but waited (albeit, uneasily) for Carisi to have his say, to frame the events in whatever way would render them best understood and manageable. 

“I had a nice time,” Carisi said. It was not what Barba was expecting, to say the least. 

“Homophobic microaggressions aside, yes. Very nice.”

“You were gonna throw down for me.”

“Uh-huh,” Barba demurred. 

“For my honor.”

Barba stopped in his tracks, turned, and gave Carisi a once-over. His hair was a sideswept mess where it rested atop a smoothed-over brow and easy blue eyes. His shirt was rumpled at the throat, and nearly transparent down the front, still wet but drying awkwardly, such that there looked to be a coastline forming where the beer had stained. 

The real lost cause was the mottled bit of fabric looped around his neck. 

“He ruined your tie, and it was among your least offensive.” Feeling both the need to lay his reasoning bare and to prove his point, Barba brought a deft pair of hands to the task. Slowly, he loosened the knot, fingering its damp fabric and stressed lines, then removed it. With a damning bit of flourish, Barba tossed it aside. “My allegiance rests there.” 

Carisi snorted softly at the display. He knew better, of course. 

But, just in case he didn’t--

Barba tried for an encouraging little smile, but stopped short somewhere nearer to grim and determined. Softly, he said, “I’m sorry.”

For Barba, watching Carisi take in a broadly meant apology was like digging his thumbs into a tangerine and splitting apart the thick skin. _Finally,_ he saw a bit of meat, wet and supple and threaded with veins and padded tight over bone. This was Carisi letting his guard down, and allowing whatever he’d kept off his face in the moment to creep out and show itself. 

Just as quickly as the nervous look in his eyes made his pupils into pin-pricks and slated his brows like a sloping rooftop to house his confusion, Carisi masked himself again. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head, and managed a better smile than Barba had cobbled together. 

While fiddling with the buttons at the throat of his ruined shirt, fingers grazing beer-sticky skin, Carisi allowed only a simple word of thanks.

“It was kind of fun, though, right?” As soon as he said it, Carisi closed his eyes, feeling stupid. “ _Before,_ I mean. With everyone.”

With his friends and colleagues, who’d smiled and asked so little, because Carisi’s happiness and pride were answer enough. 

“They think I’m entirely smitten,” Barba said, an untended observation that found him well before they’d all sat down together. “It’s horrendous.”

Carisi smiled wide and started down the sidewalk again, bumping shoulders with Barba as they went. “I mean, who could blame you?”

“You make a fair point.” 

It was a sordid, pungent night, charged with the kind of heat held over from the day and spit back out at passersby. It hugged legs and torsos and licked sweat down necks and arms. Barba carried his jacket; he’d again gone without a vest. His suspenders were already too much, holding warmth that much closer to him. And then there was the hand--Carisi’s, which slipped easily into his own, and was too-warm and smelled of spilt beer and unearned handshakes. Barna held it tight.

His grip was so secure, Barba imagined Carisi would have tried to take Barba’s hand into his pocket with him if he thought both could fit. 

“This was the best day of my life,” Carisi said, though the words hardly seemed to tear the air into which he released them.

“No,” Barba heard himself say, and only after the fact determined it was a plea. “God no. Come on. _Really?”_

“Really.” 

Because as far as Carisi was concerned, the facts supported his judgment. The evening was demonstrative, even, in cementing the notions he already had--that he had friends who cared deeply for him--and confirming those he’d held at arm’s length, suspect but hopeful. He had now in his possession something entirely new in Barba, something beyond a radiant vision of the man, the quiet kindness he reserved, and a wit tempered only by adoration. 

Barba cared for him, but more pressing than even that, Barba would _fight_ for him, and Barba would _stand_ with him. It was a veritable windfall of riches.

“Telling people the truth, that’s kind of hard,” Carisi allowed, but circled back until he was stood stalwart at his point, more certain now in its validity than much else beyond his faith. “But I’m not lying to myself anymore. So it’s worth it, you know?”

Worried that a response of his own to that point would detract from Carisi’s explanation, Barba only nodded. His own silence had been, in many ways, the product of economic necessity. It bought him time and space in environments where he already felt there was cause enough to edge him out. Poor, Latino, _and_ queer was more than he, at twenty, at _Harvard,_ could handle. 

So he’d excused himself from the responsibility, and lived untethered from his own reality. It was clear to him, now, that Carisi expected his support in exactly the place Barba had most failed himself. The younger man imagined their partnership should afford him some stability, some room to make his gamble and not come to squalor for it. 

Barba thought maybe he could do that much for the both of them. 

“Because I basically got everything I wanted,” Carisi continued, sort of loose, like these ideas were only just dawning on him, and in the stuffy night they greeted him like a cold drink of water running rapid down his throat. “And some of it isn’t--nice.” 

He smiled a little too freely at that, finally in agreement with Barba about how foolish he’d been to sweep past girlfriends under that banner, thinking it anything other than a slurry. 

“But it’s honest, you know? And that’s… I wanted to try being that.”

“Good for you,” Barba said at last. The words found him in the same hushed, reverent tone he’d used to congratulate Carisi on passing the bar exam. He _should_ be proud; this _wasn’t_ easy.

“I’ll figure out how to deal with it,” Carisi promised, tugging his shirt collar open a little further, and grimacing at the bitter stink. “I can’t--I don’t _want_ to get mad.”

Instead, he wanted to temper himself, to do what was prudent and right, rather than what only felt to be so. 

“That’s a lofty goal,” Barba said, recognizing in it some shade of _turn the other cheek._ He thought it a fool’s errand, and impossible besides. Barba saw it solely as that finely tweaked brand of suffering religion liked to confuse for goodness, but knew, likewise, that Carisi believed in it with all his heart. He shelved his own ego and conceded, “I sincerely hope you can manage it. I don’t know that I want to see you develop a thick skin.” 

“I don’t know that I want that, either,” Carisi agreed, sounding thoughtful. Then, in a turn so smooth it made Barba halt in protest, Carisi added, “Looks real good on you, though.”

“Was that a fat joke?” Barba asked, spinning his voice into such a state he could have crushed diamond against its blunt edge. He did this, naturally, just to see the horrified expression on Carisi’s face before Barba cracked a satisfied little smile and opened his eyes just that much wider, denoting an innocence he’d never in his life possessed. 

(Carisi did him one better, and had to sit down on a nearby stoop to recover.)

“You make it so easy,” Barba tutted, guiding Carisi up and back along their path. “Coming back to my place, I hope?”

“Yeah,” Carisi said, now sweat-drenched in addition to the beer. “You know I love an offhand invitation.”

“It was narrowly even that.”

“You’re just, like, _severing_ the hand it was _off_ of, now.”

They walked together a few more blocks until the City gave them that particular gift of a green corner, a space absent any buildings, where one could always find a gentle wind. The moment one such blessed breeze found them, both men were struck dumb with its ease. 

“We still have a lot to talk about,” Barba said, apropos of nothing. He seemed not to trust the respite, even as it cooled his neck, brow, and forearms. This was air inside a dead body only; the night would spend it all soon.

“Do we?”

“Yes. But not tonight.” Barba turned, faced Carisi again. Twice outside the bar hadn’t been enough, and inside, they were poised at an angle. He couldn’t stand to see one dimple without its mate--the lack of symmetry didn’t hinder its beauty, but left Barba wanting of more. 

_“Tonight,”_ Barba continued, punctuating the term as if he’d decided in that one instance what he meant to do with it, “I want you render you entirely incoherent.”

Barba wanted to stage a beautiful scene, a masterpiece tailored to fit, and nothing like the wrinkled mess Carisi was stuck in, presently. They would be clean, he decided. Clean and cool and even _chilly,_ until Barba treated Carisi’s body to his own, and they forged friction and heat and their own end. They would draw consequence from love, then reflect on the extent to which they had so much love to deal in. It would go slack and gather at their feet, and build high into a fortune. 

There was promise enough in his voice, but what stunned Carisi most was how Barba’s face read hot with determination. His heavily-lidded eyes labored under the effort it took to hold back a gaze that would sooner devour Carisi than see him. His lips, Carisi saw, broke readily for a flash of tongue.

Carisi coughed like the air had been stolen clear out of his lungs, and _blushed_ like physics and systems meant nothing, and being devoid of breath should leave him red rather than blue, and that was just as well. The streets could turn to ice and the sky a pleasant houndstooth pattern for as little as he cared for sense in that moment. 

Life was better without it, anyway.

“Um. You want to get that taxi now, or…?” 

“Keep walking,” Barba said with none too small a grin. It was a thing that could level cities. “I’m making a list.”

“Can we walk faster, at least?” 

“This is a good pace.”

Carisi rubbed his neck so as to occupy his hands in addition to his mind as he vied for some other line of thought to travel down. If he languished over Barba’s suggestion, he knew he wouldn’t clear the block.

“Um-- _hey._ That picture. Can you get another one?”

Barba raised an eyebrow. In the passing dark from an absent streetlamp, Carisi couldn’t see it, but the gesture made itself known in the pitch of Barba’s voice, a lyrical thing that never went without accompaniment. 

“Did you get crime on it?”

“I showed my mom,” Carisi said. “And the rest of my family.” Before Barba asked when he’d found the time, Carisi waved a hand, clarified, “In a text.” 

He'd crafted it carefully, even ran it by Rollins, asking half a dozen times over the span of an hour, _Does this sound okay?_ He sought the optimal balance between jovial and reasoned, and settled on a text to accompany their faces: _[I know you guys have questions. I'm busy with work right now, but to tide you over, here he is. He means a lot to me.]_

“And Bella thought it might be a good idea if I gave mom a copy, see if we can’t make ourselves a fixture in the den,” Carisi continued, his usual rush of words and hands moving fast to guide them. “If that’s okay.”

“Sounds like a gallery opening,” Barba noted. He was aware, too, that Carisi asked for the photo before asking permission regarding its display. He had to decide the entirety of his response quickly and without reservation. He stalled, saying, “The den. Very prestigious.”

“Front row center,” Carisi joked, hopeful now because he hadn’t yet heard a ‘no.’ “Between two christenings.”

“I should be so honored,” Barba said, and supposed he genuinely was. 

But there was a niggling hole in Carisi's plot, and Barba could not help himself for demanding that sense be made of it. Keeping his voice light, Barba inquired, “This is your sister’s idea? Your mother didn’t ask for it?”

“I mean,” Carisi hedged on his response, which was answer enough. Love amongst the Carisi's was stubborn, often gambled with and won and then possessed with everything that was ever worth knowing--anger, affection, fear, and fatality. “It’s how Bella brought Tommy into the fold. Tried and true.”

“Her husband,” Barba said flatly, but realized he did not want to start down that arguable path with Carisi. He diverted fast and made toward that more well-traveled question of perceptions rather than deeds. “How are things, now? With your parents?”

“Um, you know.” Aside from some texts on Carisi’s behalf, they hadn’t talked, really, since Monday night. “Better. Getting there. These things take time, right?”

 _Decades,_ Barba thought, but kept the word off his lips, deciding instead to spare Carisi that much.

This was a man who had driven himself to distraction doubting God’s love for him, and then fought with all his being that which might deny him that love indefinitely. That he'd sustained himself for so long on so little seemed to answer for his height and slim build. He'd been deprived his own truth, and his body bore that behavior literally. 

The trick, he'd found, was just to believe with everything inside of him that he’d wake up one morning to find himself returned to that golden light, to feel it warm him from within. God returned to his heart the moment Carisi found irreparable cause to open it to Barba. His parents would come around, Carisi thought. They'd see him and recognize him fully, and confuse themselves--ultimately--by thinking he'd been smaller, before? That his face hadn't been so carved as to house such a brilliant smile? That his eyes hadn't seen _that_ blue? 

Carisi believed this wholeheartedly. They'd relearn their son much like he'd recently met himself, a fully formed being overtaking the faulty model. All he had to do now was outlive the wait.

Carisi knew he could give it another thirty years. He prayed fervently that he wouldn't have to.

“I’m glad things are improving,” Barba said, because whether it was a lie or not, Carisi needed to believe it.

“You had your doubts.”

Barba shrugged, said, “A good Catholic like yourself comes from good Catholic stock.”

“Yeah, we’re like corn that way.”

“Are you seriously going to tell me you didn’t have concerns of your own?”

“My whole life,” Carisi admitted. If the threat was only to his own soul, Carisi wasn't sure he'd have denied himself so long. It was the prospect of damning others--conspirators, if they indeed chose him over their church--that had stayed his tongue, grounded his eyes, and caged his heart. “But I have to believe they’ll come around.”

“So you use faith to circumvent scripture,” Barba said, and though it would have been kinder to phrase it as a question, he knew it rose from deep in his gut as an insult. He wanted to apologize for it immediately, but Carisi was too quick for him.

“It’s not scripture that they shouldn’t love me,” Carisi said, his voice gentle beyond measure, because Barba needed to be told this, too. “Or you.”

“I think it’s a canyon’s leap from loving their only son to loving,” Barba shook his head, unable to name himself in the equation.

“No, it’s like a box step,” Carisi said, and demonstrated the light footwork, “From me to you.” 

It was, by Barba’s count, the _second_ most absurd gesture of the evening.

“That came to you far too easily,” Barba said, then narrowed his eyes. “And your parents had _no_ idea, you say?”

Carisi smiled so brightly, then, that Barba was thoroughly charmed and surprised for it. The realization was so vast, yet once Barba met it all at once, forgiving it its size and unwieldy limits. He asked himself only this: How many times would it shock him that he should want to know the whole of Carisi’s human condition? How comforting, then, was the simple acceptance that he’d spend a lifetime searching for its end?

Of all the things that nearly cost him his sanity, Barba gave very little thought towards how willing he’d be to surrender it for this. 

“Asshole,” Carisi huffed, but repeated his move all the same. “See if I ever ask you to dance.”

“See if I ever play something you could waltz to,” Barba returned easily, though inside he was still stirring, every cell buzzing with excitement, with understanding.

“I could waltz to a samba. You’d leave me, but I could get it in there before you did.” 

“It’s always good to have an exit strategy.” 

“Speaking of,” Carisi sighed, and tugged his ruined shirt completely free of the waist of his slacks, then gave it a few billowy breaths. “This heat, am I right?”

“It’s unseemly,” Barba agreed, and to that point began scanning the street for a taxi. 

“We gotta get out of this city.”

-

That night, they didn’t get any further than uptown.

Barba set his scene and they danced through it. They were shower-fresh until they weren’t, and somewhere between the shower and the bed and couch and the bed again, they stopped for scotch enough to relight the fire in their bellies, and warm them over for the night. The bedsheets--twisting, sloping, softened with time--were a portal to another world, one Barba thought they should visit far more regularly. 

There was music from the record player, too. A song Carisi knew by heart. 

“I love you so much,” Carisi said with his nose pressed into the warm curl of Barba’s chest hair, which itself had some restraint, because it curbed naturally just below the hollow of the man’s throat. Same as the beard of which Barba had previously dispatched, there were flecks of grey to keep it interesting. It was the picture of elegance.

“After what I just did? You should.”

Carisi’s laugh was delirious, almost a whine when it eventually tapered off into a long, slow breath. He raised a hand to Barba’s face and swept his fingers gently along the man’s cheek and jawline, then raised his head just enough to pillow it over Barba’s chest. “Thank you for doing this with me.”

Barba smirked. “It’s less fun by myself.”

“Ha ha,” Carisi said, and listened to Barba’s heart for thrumming irregularity, or a smooth pulse, though he’d have no idea what to make of either. “Really.”

Barba kissed the top of Carisi’s head, a perfunctory effort. “Stop.”

Barba wrapped his arms around Carisi, who responded in a hum and a sigh, which Barba returned. He imagined they had an indigenous language between them, unique only to his bedroom. He’d have to get a parrot or some other awful thing to learn and preserve their speech for future records.

“What’s worse?” Barba started to ask, and by the slow drag of his voice, knew the scotch was involved in loosening this question from the pit of his stomach. “When I hurt you, or when some stranger does it?”

He moved a curled hand along Carisi’s forearm, resting it at his elbow, as if there were any possible means of soothing a wound as deep as the one he’d already inflicted.

For a moment, Carisi said nothing. Barba felt the magnificent silence like the gates to salvation closing an inch from his nose, banishing him into a space filled with nothing but brutal clarity. 

And there, Barba saw himself as he most feared: absent. There was his uninhabited bed, Carisi nowhere near it. His solid torso would never feel the warmth of another man, and his fingers and mind would be laid still. His suits, his shoes, all of them empty, save for whatever one they’d put him to rest in, if indeed the bullet through his head hadn’t ruined the vision entirely. A man with half a skull was his own picture--no need for Armani, then. 

When Barba imagined himself dead, he didn’t see a tidy corpse. Admittedly, that concerned him less than what he did see: an empty life, easily packaged away, those few spaces he’d occupied otherwise filled. His office, his friendships--replaceable. His lover, narrowly avoiding a grand mistake, the mess he’d made.

“Hey.” Like a dribble of honey, Carisi’s voice seeped into being. Barba had to look to the ceiling and pray--when had he last prayed?--that he wouldn’t delve into his heart and lose his composure. 

Carisi continued, “ _Hey._ Come on. Don’t say that.” 

To himself, he smiled, strangely moved by Barba’s admission. It drew from him something like longing and he said--and hoped to prove--what he ardently believed: “You’re so good. _We’re good.”_

“You’re sweet,” Barba said, and wanted to believe it, too.

Carisi wriggled himself free from Barba’s loose hold, and imparted one of his own around Barba’s legs, encircling them with his long arms, then resting his cheek on Barba’s stomach. 

“Are you heading south for the view or the destination?” Barba said, cracking a joke and hoping his voice didn’t break along with it. 

“Ha, you wish,” Carisi said, smiling wide, then losing it to something more sidelong, like the horizon seen off the side of a rocking ship. “You know, Bella said something interesting.”

“M-hm. Can I rinse off before you put me to sleep with a half-remembered conversation you had with your sister?” In a low rumble, Barba amended those plans, suggesting instead, “Or _we_ can rinse off, and I can make you forget she said anything.”

Carisi hugged Barba’s legs tighter, staying his departure. “She asked if it was any fun, falling in love with you. And. I thought I’d ask.” Carisi withdrew his hold and put himself next to Barba in bed, a more respectable state, though his hand dropped immediately into chest hair, again. “Because it’s been… a rough year for you.”

Barba warded off those concerns with a sideways smile of his own. “Rest assured, you were a definite highlight.”

“I mean, the bar’s pretty low.” Carisi traced an errant line through the hair. “You weren’t in a great place. I wasn’t any place at all, really.” 

There wasn’t anything by way of a path, but he made it to a nipple all the same. Engenuity, that. 

“Enjoying the hell out of you, _yeah,_ but… I guess what I’m saying is, I’m excited. Things are gonna be better now than they were, kind of by default. And things have been pretty incredible.” 

Barba felt a swell of heartache, and when it cleared like floodwaters receding into the ocean, he was left with humble beginnings. The simple things. Desire and hope and an ordinary, earthen pain that didn’t frighten him as much as he thought it would.

Barba kissed Carisi, more tender than he believed himself capable, but Carisi flashed warm under his touch, and Barba knew he’d surely mastered something new.

And when they broke apart, Carisi’s was the pink face of the adored, screwed up and silly, yet still absolute. It pitched Barba clear out of heartache and into agony; he wanted to love this man immediately in ways both individual and collective. He wanted him all to himself under a new swath of sky. He wanted mouth and cock at once, but also hands, and words, and promises, all in abundance, and more still, until Barba could stand miles above all he’d demanded and still drown in it.

“That’s it,” he said, and slapped Carisi’s hand away, because chest hair posed too great a distraction for him. “No more excuses. I need an answer.” 

His stare was hard and well-met. And his smile--when he gave it--was returned tenfold. 

“France, Prague, or Morocco?” 

-

The landscape was this: a kind of unholy crack in the earth from which the beach and coast teetered sunny and bright on one side, and the grounds grew luscious and deep, deep green on the other. They’d stepped out of the green and into the blue, like choosing between paradises should always be so easy.

On the beach, Carisi put his height and irrational affinity for other tourists--Haligonians, his favorite--to good use: he steepled his legs over a child’s sandcastle and held the kid, Mission Impossible style, over his own creation, so that he might plant a centered flag.

Poised on a blanket and behind a book, Barba pretended like he wasn’t watching the entire time. Such was the benefit of sunglasses and a well-worn baseball cap.

He needed both. There was sun here, plenty of it, a profound abundance. Four days of this, and still Barba didn't believe it to be true. Every night that he laid his sunshine-warmed body to rest against cool sheets, he expected to wake up in the City, where light was not so freely given. It was swallowed up first by buildings, built by those who were in a race to get the first, best, most complete taste, and everyone else waited below for table scraps.

Barba had sun and sky enough to feed himself for an eternity. 

When returning to their spot, Carisi all but crashed into the earth beside Barba. He hurtled himself through the abandonment of space itself: without Barba and with him. These were his visions of the world, now, and the former was always in movement towards the latter. If Barba wasn't before him or slivered along his peripheral vision, Carisi found himself in a harried search. 

The sand was dark but it didn’t make the skies any less blue, or the water glitter with fewer favor from the sun. The great open skies and crooked little buildings amassing themselves along a more northern stretch of coast were intoxicating, but only Carisi’s company left him truly undone. 

“This is the best day of my life,” Carisi said, and tossed the unread book Barba was hiding behind at his open backpack. It was about World War II, which just seemed in poor taste.

He wanted to be looked at when he said so. Witnessed. 

“You keep saying that, I’m going to start to think they’re not so hard to come by.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Get complacent.”

Carisi leaned in, and bumped their noses in order to catch Barba’s smirking mouth in a kiss.

The sun beat down around them, a spotlight over the amphitheatre in which they reveled.


End file.
